#there are also the Spirit of Life and Death who are NOT to be trifled with

[lucy-ghoul]

the fact that i had accidentally created a similar magic system to full metal alchemist (with even a similar motivation for the male antihero - that is, bringing someone back from the dead, with horrifying consequences) before i even watched one episode of the show is extremely funny to me ngl

[laluvliduvz]

CHANCE.

TW! implications of death.

bittersweet! melancholic

t. muichiro x f. reader

graciously requested by @muuumuiiii ! thank you so much for requesting, you sweet lovely lad<3

who would have anticipated it? the mist hashira, of all individuals, displaying a concern that surpassed anyone else's for you—the spirit pillar; a warrior whose technique came at the steep cost of a gradual erosion of your life.

THE MOON; THE BRIGHTEST PEARL SUSPENDED IN OUR VELVET SKY THAT FLOODED THE INKY DARKNESS WITH ITS SILVER GLOW.

a radiant disc it was. casting its ethereal glow upon the shadows of the night, while also heralding the relentless onslaught of a few infamous entities—demons.

a symbol of hope, this pale sentinel embodied a goddess-like presence, standing as a timeless guardian, observing the earth with an unwavering gaze as warriors valiantly battled the monstrous creatures scattered throughout.

above, the luminous orb commanded the vast expanse of stars, illuminating them all. yet, even in this peaceful night, two particular slayers found themselves immersed in the serenity, although one seemed burdened by a more pressing concern, far beyond the tranquility itself.

in a world where such creatures roamed, the perfect harmony would remain elusive.

thus, what purpose did survival serve if death constantly loomed, a persistent visitor at one's very doorstep?

well, the purpose of life is to be happy. or at least, that's what this young man believed.

said boy possessed an acute understanding of this belief, as if it had become ingrained in the very fabric of his being—an awareness that, perhaps, bordered on the excessive.

the sheer ecstasy of savoring every moment of existence, embracing its essence in its entirety, was undeniably a remarkable achievement—a feat that deserved to be celebrated with fervor.

thus, he found himself utterly incapable of comprehending—indeed, he never had—how she could nonchalantly dismiss the imminent cessation of her own existence, as if it were a trifling matter. the weight of her disregard for her own life gnawed at him, like a persistent ache that defied understanding.

..then again, had he been any different?

"—and…now you’re spacing out, again.”

ah, the sound of that melodious voice; both longed for and dreaded, resonated within him and snapped him out of his reverie. even though he had incessantly poured out his thoughts to her since he awakened from his coma, with her faithfully by his side, deep in slumber—despite her own exhaustion—she had remained.

as your words echoed in his ears, he shifted his gaze to meet your own—and oh, those eyes.

he would give anything to forever witness his own reflection in the depths of your eyes.

in a mesmerizing dance, your gazes intertwined; an exquisite tapestry woven with delicate threads of connection.

he couldn't help but be entranced by the sheer magnificence of your irises—their majesty akin to rare crystalline treasures, gleaming beneath the majestic canopy of the nocturnal sky.

as a gentle zephyr whispered sweet nothings, its delicate touch caressed their beings, a tender embrace from the invisible hands of nature. he watched, his eyelids descending to a half-closed state, surrendering to the enchanting symphony of the night.

the breeze, like a playful sprite, felt as if it alone, could carry away his worries and sorrows, dispersing them into the velvety darkness.

yet, amidst this reposeful tranquility, a question lingered in the depths of his soul, an enigma that remained elusive and enigmatic.

it was one of the few riddles that continued to elude his grasp, an enigmatic puzzle that defied comprehension, regardless of whether he had regained his former self or not.

why, he pondered ever so deeply, did your well-being hold such profound significance to him?

why did his heart ache with an inexplicable yearning to protect you, to ensure the radiance within you remained untouched by the shadows of the world? it was as if his very purpose revolved around safeguarding your light, shielding it from the encroaching darkness threatening to dim its brilliance.

no, he never intended to diminish your worth in any way.

on the contrary—he understood, with a profound certainty, that you’re fully capable of caring for yourself alone.

yet, despite his awareness, a veil of mystery draped over his consciousness—that of a delicate wisp of mist teasing the boundaries of his understanding. it remained tantalizingly close, yet perpetually out of his reach, an enigma that eluded his grasp.

similarly elusive was the faint, almost imperceptible yet weighty pang in his heart each time his gaze flickered to your bandages that dressed your wounds.

he struggled to fathom its origins, to decipher the emotions that coursed through him with every glance. was it concern, fear, or something different altogether?

of course, he chastised himself for overreacting. after all, you were healing, weren't you?

...right?

at least, that was the relentless mantra he repeated to himself, like a haunting melody, a lullaby of self-deception.

perhaps it was a lie he constructed, a defense mechanism to shield himself from the harsh reality. deep down, he knew all too well that you were pushing yourself to the brink, sacrificing fragments of your own well-being to save countless others from the clutches of death.

how he yearned to tell you—to implore you—to cease using the very essence that slowly, yet inexorably, eroded your own vitality. the desire to shield you from the self-inflicted harm, consumed him.

yet, who was he to stand in your way?

who was he to dictate how you should pursue your purpose—your solemn vow? who had the right to demand that you discard the only technique you knew, as if acquiring a new skill were a trivial matter?

perhaps, for you, it had maybe once been a tangible option—a plausible alternative.

however, it clashed with the very reason why you chose to persist in wielding the power of spirit breathing, despite its unfortunate and devastating toll on your own being.

it was a conundrum that weighed heavily upon his soul, yet another conflict that tugged at the frayed edges of his limited understanding.

then, abruptly—his consciousness snapped back to reality, like a fragile dream shattered by the gentle sweep of a waving hand.

in that instant, the symphony of your voice, a sweet and melodious tune, graced his senses once more, stirring his spirit from its slumber.

"hello? earth to tokito?"

your words danced in the air, adorned with a delicate blend of amusement and genuine concern—whilst he, silently observed your actions. his gaze lingering for a fleeting moment, as if capturing the essence of your graceful movements.

soon enough, his eyes blinked, like a dormant star awakening to illuminate the night sky, as he finally stirred from his reverie.

with a subtle tilt of his head, he emitted a soft hum—a melodic expression that intertwined intrigue and acknowledgment in response to your beckoning. the notes of his hum danced through the air, a secretive melody that conveyed both his curiosity and the recognition of your presence.

meanwhile, you watched him with an internal sigh of relief.

the young man, whom you had believed to be forever lost in the bewitching realm of his perpetual daydreams, had returned to the realm of the present. the transformation within him, from introspective to effervescent, had you spellbound, never failing to leave you even in but a speck of awe, of these rare moments of clarity that graced his being.

"seems like someone's finally awake."

a faint smile blossoming upon your lips, akin to the first delicate bloom of a spring flower. lowering your hand with graceful grace,

you adjusted yourself to a more comfortable position beside him on the edge of the engawa outside the butterfly manor—a perch where you and him had been leisurely spending time together, without a care in the world, rambling on about. relishing in the comfort in one another’s presence—like a normal pair of souls basking in the way of life.

"you’ve been staring at me for quite a while.”

pausing for a breath, you tilted your head—the radiance of your irises blooming with an enchanting glow, as if the secrets of the universe were hidden within their depths.

"what's wrong?"

in the midst of an enchanting moment, a subtle hint of wounded innocence played across your seductive countenance, evoking a mysterious allure.

"do i look that bad?"

your voice, though as mellow and gentle as always, carried an underlying touch of vulnerability.

in an instant, he reacted, tilting his head with a subtle mixture of surprise and denial.

"what? no."

aa he blinked, his words slipped out absent-mindedly, like a whisper from a dreamer's lips.

"far from it, actually."

he confessed, his sincerity palpable.

with a gaze that held a painter's eye for detail, he saw your flaws not as imperfections, but as intricate brush strokes that added depth to the masterpiece of your being. inexplicably, he adored you, to the point where it practically pained him.

and who could blame him? for you were way more than a mere beauty that could be captured in words. you were a tapestry of emotions, a symphony of sensations that defied description.

to him, you are everything.

your brows raised slightly, captivated by his ever-unpredictable nature. truly, like the wind, he embraced the freedom to wander in any direction he pleased.

reminiscent of an owl, you blinked a plenty amount of times, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity of his flattery. it seeped into the recesses of your heart, stirring a delicate blend of bashfulness and gratitude.

"then..."

unintentionally mimicking his gestures, as if dancing in synchrony with his spirit, you then asked, avidly yearning to explore the depths of his thoughts.

"mind sharing what's got you so..distant?"

although it was not deemed uncommon for him, of all individuals, to maintain a silent disposition, you possessed a deeper understanding—having witnessed something greater, something more.

despite the mere span of a few days, you stood as a crucial observer to the sudden shift in his demeanor. having been privy to a bewildering yet endearingly interactive side of the boy since his awakening, it became slightly disconcerting to witness him potentially regress into his characteristic, distant, and dazed state.

the memory of those extraordinary moments lingered, and it was disheartening to question whether they were mere illusions or if they held the promise of something genuine.

as of now, the male in question pressed his lips together, creating a slender line as his gaze wandered away from yours, as though searching for a brief respite from reality.

seeing this, you reassured him. carefully observing these subtle occurrences with your keen irises.

"you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

responding with a weary shake of his head and a sigh escaping his lips, his gaze flickered back to you, and as his eyes connected with yours once more, a subtle softness overcame them.

truly breathtaking were his eyes. they possessed a hue reminiscent of emerald, yet they gleamed like the replesdent glow of the moon above.

however, what truly captured your attention was the way his brows furrowed just as the corner of his lips downturned, for internally—a cascade of emotions crashed upon him all at once. moreover, a despairing layer seemed to coat his eyes, a poignant sorrow that caught you off guard.

"i don't like it."

he stated firmly, his words hanging in the air, leaving you perplexed.

your head tilted slightly further, eyes widening as you regarded him with curiosity and intrigue.

in response, he raised a hand to the area where his heart resided, his gaze lowering and narrowing towards the ground beneath you both.

"this feeling..."

his voice carried a weight of uncertainty, gaze delicately shifted back to meet yours—and in that moment, you could have sworn you saw his frown deepen as the hint of sorrow on his features became even more pronounced.

"and knowing you could..."

he trailed off, unable to bring himself to complete his sentence. yet, the unfinished words were enough for you to grasp the essence of his meaning.

your brows upturned, sensing the profound depth of emotions he struggled to express fully through words. you had a hunch that it might be something like this, but witnessing his reaction with such intensity was, without a doubt, enough to evoke a painful ache in anyone's heart.

the desire to comfort him welled up within you, an overwhelming longing to ease his burdens. yet, you couldn't help but question how you could possibly offer reassurance.

would it be by telling a blatant lie about something that was inevitable?

now, that would be nothing short of cruelty, no?

to suggest that you would overcome it would only exacerbate the pain. moreover, you were uncertain how to approach the situation without inadvertently triggering a devastating chain of events in the unavoidable future.

truth be told, if he were anyone else, you might have dismissed the matter with a casual remark, wouldn't you?

but with him, it was different.

you couldn't bring yourself to say so.

unable to find the right words in that moment, your gaze somberly shifted away from his, fixating on a distant point ahead. yet, in a sudden and unexpected instant, you were taken aback as you felt the weight of something new but vaguely familiar resting upon your shoulder—soft strands of supple hair gently brushing against you. along with it came a delicate warmth, enveloping you in an oddly soothing sensation.

"you don't have to say anything."

he quietly uttered, his honeyed voice carrying a mix of vulnerability and reassurance. he simply needed to release his thoughts into the open, to let them be heard, even if it was just a single sentence.

there had been no intention to pressurize or burden you, but rather a desire to be the one offering reassurance while subtly seeking comfort himself.

in a silent plea to convince himself that he wasn't caught in a dream, he gingerly leaned his head against your shoulder, and though was making sure not to add any more damage to your wounds, he did so without a hint of regret.

your heart skipped a beat, overwhelmed by the depth of his actions. turning your attention back to him, you found solace in this unspoken gesture of support. that tender gesture conveyed a profound understanding, a connection that surpassed the boundaries of words. it was a silent reassurance; of ones comforting presence for the other, especially in the face of uncertainty.

a sentimental smile graced your features as you felt immense gratitude for his selfless deeds. even in this moment, he made sure you were as comfortable as possible, going above and beyond to provide solace. the warmth of his actions filled you with a deep sense of appreciation and reinforced the unmatched bond between you.

"..thank you,"

you whispered in a hushed breath, your voice carrying the weight of profound appreciation.

though the words seemed simple, they held within them an entire universe of gratitude—a universe that bloomed with vivid colors, dreamlike aspirations, and meaningful connections.

with a delicate grace, you lifted your hand and allowed your fingertips to dance upon the canvas of his raven tresses. each strand, like a silken thread, wove a tapestry of sensations beneath your touch.

the texture was soft and supple, akin to the gentle caress of a summer breeze. as your fingers glided through the ebony strands, you embarked on a journey of intricate care, smoothing out the knots that dared to disrupt the harmony.

in this intimate act, time seemed to suspend, creating a space where the world faded away, leaving only the two of you in a transcendent moment. your touch, as mindful as the brushstrokes of an artist, traced a path of tenderness and care. each movement held intention, a pledge to protect and cherish him, ensuring no harm would befall his vulnerable spirit.

It was a silent symphony, where the language of trust and gratitude flowed effortlessly through the whispers of your fingertips.

as you continued this tender ministration, a vibrant tapestry of emotions unfurled within the depths of your heart. gratitude, like a delicate fragrance, mingled with a sense of wonder, weaving a spellbinding combination.

the tenderness you shared painted a tableau, akin to a cherished memory, where hues of warmth, understanding, and appreciation blended harmoniously.

pleased by your touch, a contented hum escaped your companion's lips, his eyes finding solace in the comfortable embrace of closed lids.

a smile, brimming with emotions, blossomed upon his visage, a testament to the profound impact of your presence.

his heart fluttered with a bittersweet ache, caught between the beauty of the present and the uncertainty of the future.

yet, even in the face of daunting odds, a glimmer of hope persisted within him. it discreetly clung to his being, refusing to be extinguished.

it was undeniably a childlike hope, both fragile and resilient; to yearn for the possibility of a miraculous turn of events.

still, muichiro wanted to embrace that chance, to patiently wait for the magic of a future with you.

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms: Aemond POV

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Two

The year Maera spent with the family in the Red Keep proved to be a glorious one, bringing a sense of rejuvenation to the once somber halls. Like a much-needed rainstorm on a dehydrated garden, Maera's presence breathed new life into the atmosphere, infusing it with vitality and joy. Helaena, typically withdrawn, blossomed in Maera's company. With the young Lady by her side, she seemed more engaged and spent less time in her trance-like states.

Aegon, recognizing that Maera was not to be trifled with, ceased his bothersome antics, realizing that it was futile to challenge someone who met his provocations with unwavering resolve. His newfound indifference allowed them to enjoy their time together without the constant threat of disruption.

Even Queen Alicent, usually composed and regal, seemed to radiate a newfound warmth in Maera's presence. She enjoyed spending with the little girls, guiding them to the Sept to pray and spending afternoons with them in the company of a tutor, teaching them the graceful art of dance. In Maera, the Queen found not only a companion for her daughter but also a source of light and vitality that rejuvenated her own spirit.

Aemond found himself unable to deny the profound effect Maera had on him. Their friendship was unlike any other he had experienced within the confines of the Red Keep. There were no forced interactions, no courtly manners, no pretenses—just genuine companionship. In Maera's presence, Aemond felt liberated to be himself, unencumbered by the expectations of his station.

Despite understanding Maera's foremost duty to Helaena, Aemond couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy at times when he had to share her attention. Yet, he cherished every moment they spent together, eagerly anticipating the rare occasions when Maera had free time away from her duties, knowing she would choose to spend it with him.

Their days were filled with adventure and laughter as they ran through the castle grounds, scaled its walls, engaged in spirited debates, and delved into the depths of ancient tomes, unraveling the mysteries of High Valyrian together. Eventually, their shared passion for sword training led them to convince Ser Criston Cole, the esteemed knight of the Kingsguard, to allow them to spar together. Knowing Alicent's children held a special place in his heart, Ser Criston relented, albeit in secret, allowing the pair to practice under his watchful eye.

Maera, borrowing a green tunic from Aemond's wardrobe, wore it with a casual grace that seemed to breathe new life into the garment. The verdant hue of the shirt perfectly complemented her striking green eyes, accentuating their brilliance with every glance. Paired with some weathered riding leathers procured from the stables, Maera appeared every bit as comfortable in her borrowed attire as she did in her delicate turquoise and gold dresses.

The atmosphere crackled with excitement as they exchanged playful banter and swift strikes from their wooden swords, each meeting the other's challenge with equal determination. Aemond and Maera challenged each other just the right amount, pushing themselves to improve while reveling in the joy of friendly competition.

“Should you even be down here?” A critical voice called out to the pair. Aemond and Maera looked up to see Aegon descending the steps, his presence casting a shadow over their moment of camaraderie. Aemond gritted his teeth, feeling a surge of frustration at his older brother’s unwelcome intrusion. Since Rhaenyra had taken her sons to Dragonstone, Aemond surmised that Aegon was lacking in playthings to torment and was seeking out a game.

Taking in the sight of Aegon, Aemond noticed the slight smudges of soot on his cheeks and the worn, dirty state of his clothes. A twinge of jealousy stirred in Aemond’s heart as he realized that Aegon had likely been to the dragonpit, the envy of his brother having access to a dragon gnawing at him.

“Should you?” Maera sneered, a frown on her face as the elder Prince approached them. Despite Maera having numerous elder brothers back at Rain House, she had confided in Aemond that she could only tolerate Aegon in small doses. Seeing him now, her irritation was palpable, a reflection of Aemond’s own feelings towards his brother’s presence.

Ser Criston greeted Prince Aegon with a nod, his dark brown hair ruffled by the breeze and his piercing dark eyes keen with watchfulness.“My Prince, have you come to train or merely spectate?”

Aegon grinned darkly at his brother and the young lady. “Give me a sword, Cole. Let me hone my skill using these two as practice.”

Aemond's nerves prickled as Aegon challenged him and Maera to a spar. Despite his years of training, Aemond couldn't shake the feeling of apprehension knowing that Aegon possessed a height and speed advantage, along with a slight edge in swordsmanship.

Glancing at Maera, however, Aemond found reassurance in her mischievous smirk. “We can take him, Aemond,” she whispered with a wink. Her confidence and readiness were palpable as she stood before him, her stance set and wooden sword raised in anticipation. Her unwavering courage bolstered his own resolve, and with a nod of determination, Aemond assumed his position, ready to face the challenge that lay ahead.

As Ser Criston's authoritative voice commanded the start of the spar, the tension in the training yard heightened palpably. Aegon wasted no time, launching his assault with a swift and aggressive strike aimed directly at Maera. However, with reflexes honed through countless hours of training, Maera deftly sidestepped the blow, her movements fluid and precise.

Meanwhile, Aemond and Maera coordinated their movements, strategically positioning themselves to cover each other's blind spots. Aegon, recognizing the threat posed by their combined defense, shifted his focus to Aemond, launching a relentless series of attacks with his wooden sword. Aemond, feeling the pressure mount with each strike, struggled to keep pace, his nerves fraying at the ferocity of Aegon's onslaught.

Seeing Aemond's struggle, Maera moved to intervene, her determination to protect her friend shining through. However, her noble intentions were met with unexpected aggression from Aegon. With a sudden and forceful elbow strike, Aegon caught Maera off guard, the impact landing squarely on her face with a resounding thud. The shock of the blow sent Maera reeling backward, her breath knocked from her lungs as pain radiated from the point of impact.

Prince Aegon refocused his attention on Aemond, he drove his younger brother backward with a relentless barrage of strikes from his wooden sword. Aemond, feeling the pressure mount, retreated step by step until he tripped over his own feet and fell to the ground. Despite Aemond's vulnerable position, Aegon showed no mercy, continuing to rain down blows upon the younger Prince.

Aemond's eyes widened in shock as he watched Aegon suddenly yanked back by his hair, his expression contorting from triumph to agony. Behind Aegon stood Maera, her fierce determination evident as she held onto Aegon's locks, pulling him to the ground with a forceful tug.

Before Aegon could retaliate, Maera acted swiftly, leaping onto his wrist, the older Prince yelling out in pain as Maera's weight and momentum caused him to drop his sword. With one foot planted firmly on his chest to keep him down, Maera pointed her wooden sword menacingly at his face, her green eyes flashing with intensity as she held him at bay. At Ser Criston’s order, the match concluded.

The younger Prince watched in awe as Maera stood victorious over Aegon, flushed with exertion and breathing heavily from the intensity of the match. Their eyes met, and despite the adrenaline still coursing through her veins, Maera turned to Aemond with a triumphant grin, her expression mirroring his own sense of awe and admiration. In that moment, Aemond couldn't help but feel a surge of pride for his friend, who had proven herself to be a formidable opponent and a loyal ally.

Emerging victorious over Aegon, Maera bounded over to Aemond with uncontainable excitement, engulfing him in a big bear hug. With a joyful bounce, she celebrated her triumph, her glee infectious as she shared in the exhilaration of her victory with Aemond. In the midst of the commotion, Maera planted a light kiss on Aemond's cheek, barely noticeable but enough to send a rush of warmth flooding through him, his face flushing bright red as a smile spread across his lips.

However, their jubilant moment was interrupted by the sound of a slow clap emanating from above them. Maera's excited squeals came to an abrupt halt as the group turned their attention upwards, greeted by the sight of King Viserys, the Protector of the Realm, now weakened and feeble.

The King's thinning white hair atop his head fluttered gently in the breeze, the discolouration in his face a stark reminder of his declining health. Despite the black cloak that seemed to swamp him, there was a faint smile on his lips as he applauded the match. It was unclear how long he had been standing there, silently observing the scene before him, but his presence commanded respect and reverence from all who beheld him.

Ser Criston was the first to bow to the King, a gesture of respect and deference that was swiftly followed by Aegon's bow and Maera's curtsy. Aemond, feeling a surge of annoyance and confusion at the King's unexpected presence, reluctantly bowed as well, though his frustration simmered beneath the surface. Why had he even been watching them? Ever since his half-sister had fled with her bastards to Dragonstone, Aemond’s father spent even less time with his family, if that were even possible.

As King Viserys ushered Maera forward with a beckoning finger, Aemond felt a protective instinct stir within him. Though the King was not cruel in the conventional sense, his frequent avoidance of the family had left Aemond doubting whether his father even knew who Maera was or why she was there.

“Beaten by a little girl, Aegon? Your swordsmanship could use some work,” the King chuckled weakly, his tone carrying a hint of amusement as he addressed his son. Aegon’s response was a mere scoff, his eyes averting from his father’s gaze, a silent testament to his weariness of the constant criticisms.

Turning his attention to the young girl who had stepped forward, King Viserys inquired, “What is your name, young Lady?” Aemond observed Maera fidgeting nervously with her sleeves, a slight tremor betraying her voice as she responded to the King’s query. “Maera, of House Wylde, your Grace,” she replied, her words laced with deference.

Empathy welled up within Aemond as he observed Maera's usual green-eyed gaze downcast and her cheeks flushed red with nervousness. It was a rare display of vulnerability from his usually confident friend, and the Prince longed to reassure her. Her discomfort was palpable, and Aemond couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for dragging her into the midst of their family's complicated dynamics.

The King raised an eyebrow in recognition. “Daughter of my cousin Gael?” Maera nodded shyly in affirmation, prompting a warm smile to grace the King’s features. “Lady Gael corresponded often with my late wife, Queen Aemma. However, when she passed…” His voice trailed off, the mention of his deceased wife invoking a pang of discomfort in Aemond.

Suppressing a groan at the mention of his father’s old wife, Aemond shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering briefly to Maera, whose own discomfort mirrored his own. Despite the King’s attempt at cordiality, the specter of the past hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the otherwise jovial atmosphere of the training grounds.

Ser Criston's pointed clearing of his throat broke the momentary daze that had enveloped the King, prompting him to refocus his attention on Maera. “Do you practice with the sword often?” he inquired, his voice carrying a tone of genuine curiosity.

The little girl nodded eagerly, her eyes alight with enthusiasm. “Yes, my King. My father does not like it though. But since he is in King's Landing most of the time, that does not stop my brothers from training me at home,” she explained, her words tinged with a hint of defiance.

Aemond chuckled softly at his friend's response, his admiration for her resilience growing with each passing moment. It was fascinating to learn more about Maera's family dynamics, and despite the unconventional size of her household, there was a sense of warmth and camaraderie that seemed to permeate their interactions.

“And tell me, why were you able to knock Prince Aegon to the ground so easily?” the old King prodded with a mischievous smirk, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Maera returned the grin, her gaze briefly flickering to Aegon and wagging her tongue at him teasingly, before returning to meet the King's eyes. “Because he was not paying attention and let his confidence get the better of him… as usual,” she quipped, her words laced with playful banter.

Viserys erupted into hearty laughter, a sound that resonated with a joyousness that Aemond had rarely heard from his father. Despite his failing health, the King's laughter seemed to invigorate the air around them, infusing the moment with an unexpected sense of lightness. Using his one hand to wipe away a tear from laughing so hard, the King addressed the little girl with genuine admiration. “Ha! You remind me of my daughter.”

Maera's gaze briefly flickered towards Aemond, a fleeting moment of shared understanding passing between them. Aemond could sense her apprehension, her awareness of the overshadowing presence of Rhaenyra, even in her absence. It was a reminder of the constant struggle for recognition within the House of the Dragon, a struggle that often left Alicent and her children feeling diminished and overlooked.

The young Lady cocked her head to the side, furrowed her brows and feigning confusion. “You have two daughters, your Grace.”

The King seemed taken aback by her statement, even though there was nothing malicious or ill-intentioned in the words. Perhaps hearing them was merely a reminder of what was true. Viserys did indeed have two daughters, as well as three sons. Yet that would not appear to be the case by how devoted he seemed to one child over the others. Not quite knowing what to say, the King smiled weekly a nodded before walking away, leaving Aemond to contemplate when the next time would be his father would be present.

“I wish for you to come with us,” Helaena implored, her voice tinged with longing.

Aemond and Helaena paid a visit to Maera in her chambers, knowing that she was bedridden with a stomach bug and could use some company. As they entered Maera’s room, Aemond couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast to his own chambers. Maera’s room was much smaller, containing only the essentials—a single bed, a small hearth, and a modest table for writing and dining. It lacked the grandeur and opulence of the rooms typically found in the Red Keep, yet it held a simple charm that felt inviting and comforting.

Maera shook her head weakly, a croak in her voice as she spoke. “You both should not even be in here,” she cautioned, her concern evident despite her illness. “My father will kill me if I get you sick.”

The young Prince was concerned for his friend. The poor girl appeared pale, her dark brown hair damp against her forehead from feverish perspiration. Unlike her usual attire, Maera was still dressed in her nightgown, covered by a sheet as she lay in bed, clearly weakened by her illness.

News had reached the Capital of Lady Laena Velaryon’s untimely passing during childbirth and the King had made it clear that the family were required to attend not only to support the Velaryons, but the Kings brother, Daemon. Aemond continued swinging his legs off the edge of the bed as he contemplated their situation. “I do not think we have ever been to Driftmark before. And what a dreary affair for a first-time visit,” he remarked, his tone tinged with a hint of wistfulness.

Maera’s eyes lit up at his words, a flicker of wonder shining through her illness. “But the sea and open air! It reminds me of home,” she mused, a faint smile gracing her lips.

They had been each others’ greatest allies for what seemed like a lifetime already, and Aemond was unsure if he could be strong without Maera’s presence. And he would need strength to be around some particular attendees of the funeral.

“Rhaenyra and my nephews will be there also,” he admitted reluctantly, his words carrying a weight of anticipation.

Maera winced visibly at his revelation, shifting beneath her sheets. “That will be awkward. But you never know, maybe some time together could improve things?” she suggested optimistically, her attempt at positivity met with a skeptical chuckle from Aemond.

“Hmmm, I doubt it, but we will see,” he responded with a wry smile, his skepticism evident in his tone.

Meanwhile, Helaena, who had remained quiet and distant throughout their conversation, suddenly spoke up in a trance-like state, her words carrying an ominous weight. “He will have to close an eye,” she muttered cryptically, her words hanging heavy in the air.

Aemond and Maera exchanged a puzzled glance, uncertainty clouding their expressions. The atmosphere in the room grew tense as they pondered the meaning behind her enigmatic statement, a sense of foreboding settling over them like a heavy shroud.

"I am fine, Maera," he said curtly, his voice carrying a note of finality. "I have what I wanted."

Aemond walked away from Maera, his emotions churning within him like a stormy sea. He had hoped for her to share in his triumph, to revel in the glory of his achievement. He had thought they would celebrate together, perhaps even take a thrilling ride on his newfound dragon mount. But instead, Maera's reaction had shattered his expectations, leaving him seething with frustration and hurt.

As he walked, Aemond couldn't shake the image of Maera's horrified face from his mind. The way she had looked at him, at his eye socket now stitched shut, had pierced him to the core. It was as if she saw him differently, as if his injury had somehow changed their dynamic, and the thought angered him.

Aemond felt a surge of resentment building within him. He didn't want Maera's pity, nor anyone else's. He had accomplished the impossible—he had claimed a dragon, defying all odds and expectations. Yet, instead of admiration or celebration, all he received was sympathy, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. In that moment, he felt like a beggar in Flea Bottom, seen as less than, and weak, and Aemond resolved to fight that . He was a prince, a dragonrider, and he deserved to be treated as such.

After the devastating loss of his eye, Aemond made a conscious decision to rebuild himself, determined to prove that he was not defined by his injury but rather by his strength and resilience. He threw himself into his studies with a newfound intensity, delving into history and philosophy with a hunger for knowledge that bordered on obsession. Privately, he trained with Ser Criston multiple times a day, honing his combat skills with unwavering focus and dedication, refusing to allow himself to be distracted by self-pity or doubt.

Aemond also devoted himself to mastering High Valyrian, determined to excel in every aspect of his education. He rode Vhagar regularly, forging a deep and unbreakable bond with his dragon companion, ensuring that their connection remained strong and unwavering, wanting to become the strongest rider that had ever lived.

Aemond couldn't deny that he was now changed, and not just because he had become a dragon rider. The loss of his eye at the hands of Lucerys Velaryon had left a deep and lasting impact on him, one that went beyond the physical injury. While he had assured his mother that it was a fair exchange, inwardly he knew that his view on the world had shifted irrevocably.

Anger simmered beneath the surface of Aemond's outward composure, fueled by the injustice of what had happened to him. Yet, he found himself unable to express his fury openly, constrained by the decree of his father and King. So the anger festered within him, growing with each passing day, despite his best efforts to bury himself in his pursuits.

In the midst of his turmoil, the young Prince found himself avoiding his siblings and, unfortunately, Maera. He wasn't ready to face them, not yet. He needed time to become better, cleverer, stronger—not just physically, but in every aspect—so that he would not only be seen as the cripple he had become.

The night on Driftmark, Aemond had witnessed firsthand the weakness of his father, King Viserys, who had failed to assert his authority and defend his family's honor. Even his brother, Aegon, had proven himself to be lacking in strength and resolve. Realising that he could not rely on anyone else to protect his family, Aemond took it upon himself to step into the role of protector . He knew that the burden of responsibility rested heavily on his shoulders, but he was determined to rise to the occasion and prove himself worthy of his heritage.

After many months of introspection and self-improvement, Aemond finally felt ready to reconnect with his friend, Maera. Steeling himself against the lingering shame and insecurity that had plagued him since the incident, he made his way to her chambers, determined to resume their friendship as if nothing had changed.

However, upon entering Maera’s room, Aemond was met with a chilling emptiness. The familiar sights of her belongings—dresses, hair combs, and the wooden sword she often practiced with—were conspicuously absent, leaving the room devoid of the warmth and life that Maera had brought to it.

The young Prince attempted to gain answers from his sister, yet Helaena could not give a straight answer, avoiding eye contact and instead focussing on the Perisomena moths in metal cage. Instead, Aemond found his mother, bursting into her chambers with a sense of urgency, his single violet eye ablaze with concern as he scanned the room for any sign of Maera’s presence. Finding Queen Alicent seated beside the hearth, her hands deftly embroidering with delicate green silk, he wasted no time in voicing his demand.

“Where is Lady Maera?” he demanded, his voice betraying both strength and worry as he confronted his mother.

Alicent looked up from her stitching, her expression softening with sympathy as she met her son’s gaze. “She is gone, my Love. Back to Rain House,” she replied gently, her sad smile conveying her understanding of Aemond’s distress.

The shock registered plainly on Aemond’s face, his brows furrowing with disbelief as he processed the news, his feelings morphing from sadness to anger and betrayal. She had not waited for him, had not even said goodbye. Maera had abandoned him, his only friend in the entire world. His anger surged, directed squarely at his mother. “And you just let her go?” he exclaimed, his frustration evident in his tone as he struggled to comprehend the girls sudden departure.

In that moment, Aemond felt a searing pain radiate from where his eye used to be, spreading like wildfire through his skull. His hand instinctively flew to his face as he groaned in agony, the phantom sensation of the blade cutting open his flesh haunting him once more.

Alicent reacted swiftly, abandoning her embroidery to rush to her son’s side, her hands reaching out to cradle his head in a gesture of comfort and concern. “Talya, fetch the Maester,” she called out to her servant, her voice tinged with urgency as she tended to Aemond’s distress.

As the pain gradually subsided, leaving behind a lingering sense of disloyalty and anger, Aemond stubbornly brushed off his mother’s attempts to assist him. “I am fine, Mother,” he insisted tersely, his tone brimming with unresolved anger and hurt. With a curt nod, he abruptly turned on his heel and stormed out of his mother’s chambers, his heart heavy with the weight of Maera’s departure and the unanswered questions swirling in his mind.

Aegon found him some time later on his balcony, where the younger prince looked out towards the sea, still processing the emptiness he felt. Seeing his older brother in his chambers, Aemond groaned at his presence, praying to the Gods that they would grant him just one moment of reprieve.

“You weep for your long lost love, brother?” The older Prince asked teasingly, earning a quiet huff from Aemond. As the one-eyed Prince was about to ask his brother to leave, he turned to spot Aegon’s arm outstretched with a leather canteen, a sympathetic smile on his face.

Cautiously, Aemond took it, unscrewing the bottle and taking a quick swig, the bitterness of the wine causing him to cough. Aegon simply laughed, patting his brother on the shoulder before settling beside him on the balcony.

“Do not fret. Now that she is gone I can teach you how to be a proper man.”

Notes: I am powering through these Aemond POVs. Also the new HOTD trailer has come out and I’m obsessed so doing an Aemond chapter feels easier at the moment. Regular ODAM needs editing and will be uploaded soon but for now, I am vibing with this 😎

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

Directions for Profitably Hearing the Word of God

by John Angell James

Be early, always taking care to be present at the commencement of the service, that the body may recover from fatigue, the thoughts be collected, and the mind composed. We should avoid as much as possible all light and trifling conversation on the way to the house of God; and it would be well, where it can be done, to avoid errands, and what is usually denominated shopping, and to go from our own habitation direct to the place of worship. We should consider prayer as a very important part of the service, and not go merely to hear the sermon; and should also consider that the hymns belong to us, and join in them not only mentally, but where there is a capacity for singing, vocally also. We should most anxiously watch against a formal, careless, and undevout manner of joining in prayer, or rather of not joining in it at all, as nothing is more likely to prevent or destroy true spirituality of mind, than such a trifling with prayer as this; it is insulting to God by its hypocrisy and profaneness, and most injurious to us. There is scarcely anything about which a Christian should be more anxious than his frame of mind and outward manner in prayer. The frequency of our seasons of prayer is likely, without great watchfulness—to abate the sincerity, solemnity, and reverence with which it is performed. Our thoughts in social prayer should be kept fixed on the words of him who presents it on our behalf, that we may be prepared in spirit and in truth to say, "Amen."

Previous to our going to the house of God, we should retire for a few moments to seek a prepared heart, and implore the blessing of God both upon the minister and ourselves. It is presumed that no real Christian would neglect to preface his attendance on social worship with secret prayer.

We should establish in our minds the highest reverence and esteem of the glorious gospel, and recollect the tremendous importance and responsibility of hearing it preached, since every sermon is giving a tinge to our character for eternity, and becomes "a savor of life unto life—or of death unto death."

We should hear the word with deep and fixed attention, for upon the degree in which we employ this faculty of the soul in reference to what we hear, we shall be likely to obtain benefit. If we give up our thoughts to vagrancy, and exercise no discipline over them, we shall derive no advantage from the most instructive or impressive sermons. While, on the other hand, if we cultivate a habit of attention, we shall by degrees experience no difficulty in following the track of the longest connected discourse. Our first business is to fix our mind on the text, then on the preacher's explanation of it, then on the announcement of his design and divisions of discourse, taking care when one head is finished to cast a glance back at that which has preceded it. The opposite of attention is sleeping, than which a greater insult can be scarcely offered to the minister of God. "If," says Mr. Hall, from whom many of these sentiments are borrowed, "the apostle indignantly enquires of the Corinthians whether they had not houses to eat and drink in? may we not with equal propriety ask those who indulge in this practice—whether they have not beds to sleep in, that they convert the house of God into a dormitory?"

The grand secret of hearing to advantage is to hear in faith; to realize that what we hear is the truth of God; to be more anxious about the matter than the manner of the sermon; to consider the minister as God's messenger, and the sermon as God's message to us; to be more concerned about what is preached than by whom: and to receive the discourse "not as the word of man, but as the word of God, which works effectually in those who believe." The word preached cannot profit, if it be not mixed with faith in those who hear it.

We should hear the word of God with impartiality; having no such predilections for some topics, or prejudices against others—as would lead us to be displeased if our favorite topics were not always brought forward, or those we dislike, notwithstanding they are true and important, were not always omitted. Some can hear only doctrine; others nothing but experience; others nothing but practice. We should be pleased with all in turn, and in proportion.

Self-application is an important exercise. We should hear for ourselves, not for others; the sermon is intended for us as well as for them, and there is scarcely ever a sermon preached which does not contain in it something that suits us.

Fairness is necessary to profitable hearing. Critical hearers are rarely profitable ones: those who reject a whole sermon, generally good and excellent, because of some one word, or sentence, or paragraph, they think inelegant; or some sentiment they do not quite understand, or cannot altogether approve, act neither wisely for themselves, nor fairly towards the preacher. The man who spends all his time in analyzing his food, instead of eating it, is not likely to have good health. "Give me," says Fenelon, "the preacher who imbues me with such a love of the word of God, as makes me desirous of learning it from any mouth."

We should hear the word of God with a sincere resolution of obeying it. A sermon is not a something to be heard and admired like a fine strain of music—but a something to be heard and practiced, like the instructions of a physician, or the commands of a master. When the preacher's duty ends—that of the hearer is but beginning. We should be careful, after we have heard the word, to retain and perpetuate its impressions. We should go silently away, avoid as much as possible all conversation on the way home, retire to our closets, digest the subject in our thoughts, and turn the whole into prayer.

[gerudospiriit]

The Gerudo Pantheon

[Because I've always adored the OG idea that the Gerudo seemed to have their own culture and therefore religion separate from Hyrule's and I'm not bitter that they've basically gotten rid of that laksjdf, I made up a small pantheon with a little bit of myth for each member. Again, these are just my HCs and ideas that...probably won't come up much outside of me talking about my own shit unless other Gerudo muses want to play along, too!]

V’riqi: Goddess of the Sand. The “mother” goddess, but more in the way that she’s the most powerful and the “queen” of the other gods. She is the patron god of the Gerudo as a whole, but is especially revered by warriors as a warrior goddess herself. She gets the name Goddess of the Sand because she is said to have created the sandy landscape on which they dwell. The youngest of the pantheon, but most powerful. She is said to have defeated Karaaq for the right to rule the gods. She was also the one to create mortal Gerudos in hers and the other gods image. Serpents, especially cobras, are sacred to her. She is also the goddess of weaponry, wind, courage, and power.

Karaaq: God of the Sun. Formerly the “king” of the gods and the only “male” in the pantheon. It is his myth and unique position as the only “male” that made way for the one male born every century becomes king law. It is said that, due to the arrogance of the early male Gerudo and their violence (both physical and systemic) toward the Gerudo women that V’riqi punished Karaaq by ensuring that only one male would be born every century. Unfortunately, the mortals created the only law of making said male their king, for they believed him to be blessed by the sun god himself and a miracle (as time went on, at least, the mortals had the good sense to take steps to ensure said male was fit to rule them after some mishaps). His sacred animal is a horse. He is also the god of health and life, prophecy, the day and morning, fire, crafts, artistry, and cunning.

Ranisa: Goddess of the Moon. A more passive goddess than the previous two. She, for her known history, had little interest or involvement in the squabble over power/ruling the gods. However, as the patron goddess of death, the others still know she is not one to be trifled with. It is said that, upon creating life, she was the one who instilled mortality in them to separate the gods from mortals (maybe someday I’ll come up with a more detailed story for the WHY she did it), creating the cycle of life and death. She also serves as a guide for Gerudo to the spirit world. Her sacred animals are wolves (and probably wolfos because, though they’re monsters, they’re related). She is also the goddess of wisdom, water, stars, night and twilight, and law.

Vi and Qa’a: Goddesses of Chaos and Order. Depicted as twins, many times conjoined, and eldest of the pantheon. The original “queens” of the gods until their defeat and imprisonment by the others to keep their power in check. The more at odds they are with each other, the more tumultuous the outcome of their “outbursts.” Because they cannot be fully contained as the other gods hoped, the reverberations of their power can still be felt in the mortal realm, for better or for worse, depending on which twin “has the upper hand.” They do not have a sacred animal, but magic, both typical and the dark variety, and monsters are said to be their creations.

[cheerstotheelites-if]

I asked the other blog because I thought it might be too tangential, heh. So here I am, back where I began.

And you've tried "sir" and "mx" so far; I'll give you one more guess. Ah, but that's a trifle compared to MAGIC RAMBLINGS.

(Consider this an open invitation to ramble about all the magic. I want to hear about all of it. I came for the necromancy but I certainly am not turning down anything else.)

Here I am playing Gender Roulette. 🤡

I think I've talked about my version of Necromancy before a few months back, but not in full proper detail. I just gave y'all the sparknotes version of it.

Since Necromancy is being asked, Imma just ramble about Necromancy. You can ask me more about the other magics from the poll in separate asks, since I don't wanna clog this one.

Okay so, Necromancy. It's originally a Blessed Magic from the Death Goddess Blair onto a family in Bellhollow and to a few more from the South Eastern countries of Gaia. It's now become a Learnt Magic in recent centuries, with all the grimoires and codexes about it that were written by said families that are easily accessible in The Chancery.

There are three subtypes of Necromancy: Summoning, Exorcism, and Prophecy. A magus of this magic can have two or all three if they're able to handle its toll.

Summoning

The subset that Necromancy is mostly known for

No, you're not gonna "do bones, motherfucker". You summon either spirits or fiends (demons, mostly) that you made a Pact Bind with

Magi under this subset are usually "cursed" for having so many fiends attached to their soul, though powerful depending on what kind of fiend

Spirits are everywhere, so it is easier to summon them

Can talk to and interact with said spirits once receiving Second Senses

Can evoke madness and dread onto a person by sending a Haunt towards them

Spirits and fiend don't always listen to the command of their summoner. Spirits continue to have a will of their own even when summoned, and fiend see their "summoner" as an equal due to both parties consenting to the Pact Bind.

You can bring back a dead someone to life, by doing this very complicated ritual, but why would you?

Exorcism

We already know what this is

Usually goes hand in hand with Summoner subset, incase their summoned spirit or fiend starts feeling a bit rebellious

Banish any unwanted spirit or entity from a certain area, object, or person with ease in almost an instant

Exorcists with Second Senses can interact with said spirits, though that also means that the spirit can harm them in return

When I mean "entity" I mean every single creature that isn't of Gaia (Angels, Demons, Fae etc,.)

Can work well with Runesmith magic, since this magic also involves some protection charms against spirits

Can you exorcise yourself from a Haunt casted by a different Necromancer? Yeah, you can

Can you banish the soul of a recently revived person back to Purgatory? Yes.

Prophecy

Oracle of Delphi, but it's just the future death of a random person or loved one

It's a dreadful gift, since there isn't anything that can be done about it

The person of this magic slowly grows blind overtime with each prophecy received

Get a badass spooky title of "Seer of Death" and the like

You only go to them if you want to know how much time you have left

Usually the disciples or holy people of the Death Goddess

Common Stuff between them

Visitant's Vision - OG eye color turn to gray eyes upon receiving and practicing; can only see spirits and hidden entities that aren't bound to you. They can see you, just not interact.

Second Senses - Five Senses Deluxe; only those who are Blessed receive this; can fully interact (see, hear, touch etc.,) with spirits and hidden entities, and that means they can do the same to you for better or worse

Gain one or all of these things from witnessing death and dealing with spirits and fiend's for too long: madness, paranoia, panic disorders, PTSD/C-PTSD, phobias towards: crowds, loud noises, people staring, the dark, and aversity to touch. This usually leads to the magus living in isolation far away from a city, or in the care of family.

Whether you like it or not, the Death Goddess is your patron now.

[nicklloydnow]

“What, for example, was the attitude of the intellectual in Auschwitz toward death? A vast, unsurveyable topic, which can be covered here only fleetingly, in double time! I will assume it is known that the camp inmate did not live next door to, but in the same room with death. Death was omnipresent. The selections for the gas chambers took place at regular intervals. For a trifle prisoners were hanged on the roll call grounds, and to the beat of light march music their comrades had to file past the bodies - Eyes right! - that dangled from the gallows. Prisoners died by the score, at the work site, in the infirmary, in the bunker, within the block. I recall times when I climbed heedlessly over piled-up corpses and all of us were too weak or too indifferent even to drag the dead out of the barracks into the open. But as I have said, people have already heard far too much about this; it belongs to the category of the horrors mentioned at the outset, those which I was advised with good intentions not to discuss in detail.

Here and there someone will perhaps object that the front-line soldier was also constantly surrounded by death and that therefore death in the camp actually had no specific character and posed no incomparable ques: tions. Must I even say that the analogy is false? Just as the life of the front-line soldier, however he may have suffered at times, cannot be compared with that of the camp inmate, death in battle and the prisoner's death are two incommensurables. The soldier died the hero's or victim's death, the prisoner that of an animal intended for slaughter. The soldier was driven into the fire, and it is true that his life was not worth much. Still, the state did not order him to die, but to survive. The final duty of the prisoner, however, was death. The decisive difference lay in the fact that the front-line soldier, unlike the camp inmate, was not only the target, but also the bearer of death. Figuratively expressed: death was not only the ax that fell upon him, but it was also the sword in his hand. Even while he was suffering death, he was able to inflict it. Death approached him from without, as his fate, but it also forced its way from inside him as his own will. For him death was both a threat and an opportunity, while for the prisoner it assumed the form of a mathematically determined solution: the Final Solution! These were the conditions under which the intellectual collided with death. Death lay before him, and in him the spirit was still stirring; the latter confronted the former and tried - in vain, to say it straight off - to exemplify its dignity.

The first result was always the total collapse of the esthetic view of death. What I am saying is familiar. The intellectual, and especially the intellectual of German education and culture, bears this esthetic view of death within him. It was his legacy from the distant past, at the very latest from the time of German romanticism. It can be more or less characterized by the names Novalis, Schopenhauer, Wagner, and Thomas Mann. For death in its literary, philosophic, or musical form there was no place in Auschwitz. No bridge led from death in Auschwitz to Death in Venice. Every poetic evocation of death became intolerable, whether it was Hesse's "Dear Brother Death" or that of Rilke, who sang: "Oh Lord, give each his own death." The esthetic view of death had revealed itself to the intellectual as part of an esthetic mode of life; where the latter had been all but forgotten, the former was nothing but an elegant trifle. In the camp no Tristan music accompanied death, only the roaring of the SS and the Kapos. Since in the social sense the death of a human being was an occurrence that one merely registered in the so-called Political Section of the camp with the set phrase "subtraction due to death," it finally lost so much of its specific content that for the one expecting it, its esthetic embellishment in a way became a brazen demand and, in regard to his comrades, an indecent one.

After the esthetic view of death crumbled, the intellectual faced death defenselessly. If he attempted nonetheless to establish an intellectual and metaphysical relationship to it, he ran up against the reality of the camp, which doomed such an attempt to failure. How did it work in practice? To put it briefly and tritely: just like his unintellectual comrade, the intellectual inmate did not occupy himself with death, but with dying. Then, however, the entire problem was reduced to a number of concrete considerations. For example, there was once a conversation in the camp about an SS man who had slit open a prisoner's belly and filled it with sand. It is obvious that in view of such possibilities one was hardly concerned with whether, or that, one had to die, but only with how it would happen. Inmates carried on conversations about how long it probably takes for the gas in the gas chamber to do its job. One speculated on the painfulness of death by phenol injections. Were you to wish yourself a blow to the skull or a slow death through exhaustion in the infirmary? It was characteristic for the situation of the prisoner in regard to death that only a few decided to "run to the wire," as one said, that is, to commit suicide through contact with the highly electrified barbed wire. The wire was after all a good and rather certain thing, but it was possible that in the attempt to approach it one would be caught first and thrown into the bunker, and that led to a more difficult and more painful dying. Dying was omnipresent, death vanished from sight.

Now of course, no matter where you are, the fear of death is essentially the fear of dying, and Franz Borkenau's claim that the fear of death is the fear of suffocation holds true also for the camp. For all that, if one is free it is possible to entertain thoughts of death that at the same time are not also thoughts of dying, fears of dying. Death in freedom, at least in principle, can be intellectually detached from dying: socially, by infusing it with thoughts of the family that remains behind, of the profession one leaves, and mentally, through the effort, while still being, to feel a whiff of Nothingness. It goes without saying that such an attempt leads nowhere, that death's contradiction cannot be resolved. Still, the effort contains its own intrinsic dignity: the free person can assume a certain spiritual posture toward death, because for him death is not totally absorbed into the torment of dying. The free person can venture to the out most limit of thought, because within him there is still a space, however tiny, that is without fear. For the prisoner, however, death had no sting, not one that hurts, not one that stimulates you to think. Perhaps this explains why the camp inmate and it applies equally to the intellectual as well as to the unintellectual did experience agonizing fear of certain kinds of dying, but scarcely an actual fear of death. If I may speak of myself, then let me assert here that I never considered myself to be especially brave and probably also am not. Yet, when they once fetched me from my cell after I already had a few months of punitive camp behind me and the SS man gave me the friendly assurance that now I was to be shot, I accepted it with perfect equanimity. "Now you're afraid, aren't you?" the man - who was just having fun - said to me. "Yes," I answered, but more out of complaisance and in order not to provoke him to acts of brutality by disappointing his expectations. No, we were not afraid of death. I clearly recall how comrades in whose blocks selections for the gas chambers were expected did not talk about it, while with every sign of fear and hope they did talk about the consistency of the soup that was to be dispensed. The reality of the camp triumphed effortlessly over death and over the entire complex of the so-called ultimate questions. Here, too, the mind came up against its limits.

All those problems that one designates according to a linguistic convention as "metaphysical" became meaningless. But it was not apathy that made contemplating them impossible; on the contrary, it was the cruel sharpness of an intellect honed and hardened by camp reality. In addition, the emotional powers were lacking with which, if need be, one could have invested vague philosophic concepts and thereby made them subjectively and psychologically meaningful. Occasionally, perhaps that disquieting magus from Alemannic regions came to mind who said that beings appear to us only in the light of Being, but that man forgot Being by fixing on beings. Well now, Being. But in the camp it was more convincingly apparent than on the outside that beings and the light of Being get you nowhere. You could be hungry, be tired, be sick. To say that one purely and simply is, made no sense. And existence as such, to top it off, became definitively a totally abstract and thus empty concept. To reach out beyond concrete reality with words became before our very eyes a game that was not only worthless and an impermissible luxury but also mocking and evil. Hourly, the physical world delivered proof that its insufferableness could be coped with only through means inherent in that world. In other words: nowhere else in the world did reality have as much effective power as in the camp, nowhere else was reality so real. In no other place did the attempt to transcend it prove so hopeless and so shoddy. Like the lyric stanza about the silently standing walls and the flags clanking in the wind, the philosophic declarations also lost their transcendency and then and there became in part objective observations, in part dull chatter. Where they still meant something they appeared trivial, and where they were not trivial they no longer meant anything. We didn't require any semantic analysis or logical syntax to recognize this. A glance at the watchtowers, a sniff of burnt fat from the crematories sufficed.” (pages 15 - 19)

[yhwhrulz]

Worthy Brief - May 7, 2024

He understands our sufferings more than you know!

Isaiah 53:4-5 Surely He has borne our griefs And carried our sorrows; Yet we esteemed Him stricken, Smitten by God, and afflicted (me-u-neh). But He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; The chastisement for our peace was upon Him, And by His stripes we are healed.

Hebrews 2:9 But we see Jesus, who was made a little lower than the angels, for the suffering of death crowned with glory and honor, that He, by the grace of God, might taste death for everyone.

Hebrews 12:2 looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.

Romans 8:16-18 The Spirit Himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs--heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ, if indeed we suffer with Him, that we may also be glorified together. For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.

When I studied Isaiah 53 earnestly in the ancient Hebrew, I was taken back by the Hebrew word for "afflicted" (me-u-neh). In modern Hebrew, this word means "tortured". When I was young, and first learned what torture actually involved, my soul was shocked that this could happen to people; in fact that it was happening to people. That a person could be kept alive for the purpose of intentionally causing him intense agonizing pain was an astounding enigma for my young soul. It really frightened me; and I think that fear of torture is probably the greatest fear that humans can experience. We read about people who have been tortured, with a kind of horrified awe. And quietly we wonder inside, "How can this be?" And, "Could this ever happen to me?"

Crucifixion was a form of torture which the ancient Romans used frequently. And while I had a concept of the suffering that our Messiah endured for us, for some reason, the understanding that He was tortured for our iniquities brought my awareness to a new level. I did not begin to appreciate or fathom the suffering Yeshua went through. His identification with our suffering and our sin was total, and His experience of this torture so fully absorbed Him that He experienced what must have felt like infinite isolation and pain. Somehow, this is a deep comfort; to know that the Son of God understands by experience, torture, and suffering unthinkable.

But then, I suddenly realized that I also could not begin to comprehend the glory that awaited Him after His suffering. And that His suffering purchased for me a portion in that glory as well. It was the other side of the story, and somehow, these two extremes complement one another; suffering, and glory. The apostle Paul states his revelation about our sufferings with almost light-hearted conviction; that they are not even “worthy” to be compared with the glory that awaits us. This, to me, could be the most amazing promise in all of scripture.

Suffering is everywhere, a constant part of this life; it may be you, or someone you love, or people you don't even know but are agonizing over and praying for. This world casts suffering in every direction at every level of intensity. But all of it, every flaming ounce of it has been successfully absorbed into the body of Yeshua the Messiah. He was tortured for us – suffered death for us – so that our sufferings are trifles in the light of eternity. It's been said this way: from heaven the most miserable earthly life will look like one bad night in a cheap hotel. Thank the Lord.

Your family in the Lord with much agape love,

George, Baht Rivka (Jerusalem), Obadiah and Elianna (Dallas, TX) (Baltimore, Maryland)

Editor's Note: During this war, we have been live blogging throughout the day -- sometimes minute by minute on our Telegram channel. - https://t.me/worthywatch/ Be sure to check it out!

Editor's Note: We are planning our summer Tour so if you would like us to minister at your congregation, home fellowship, or Israel focused event, be sure to let us know ASAP. You can send an email to george [ @ ] worthyministries.com for more information.

[scotttrismegistus7]

HOW DIVINE CHRONOS, MASTER OF SIGHT, METAMORPHOSE FROM YALDABOATH, MASTER OF SPEECH:

They speak of the inhabitants of the four kingdoms of nature, of Nymphs, Undines. Gnomes, Sylphs. Salamanders, and Fairies, as if they were people with whom they were most intimately acquainted, and as if they did not belong to the realm of the fable, but were living beings of an ethereal organization. too subtle to be perceived by our gross material senses; but living, conscious, and knowing, ready to serve and instruct man and to be instructed by him. They speak of Planetary Spirits who were formerly men. but who are now as far above human beings as the latter are above animals, and they seriously assert that if men knew the divine powers, which are dormant in their constitution, and were to pay attention to their development, instead of wasting all their life and energies upon the comparatively insignificant and trifling affairs of their short and transient extemal existence upon this earth. they might in time become like those planetary spirits or gods.

~LIBER SCRIPTUM, by Franz Hartmann~

http://www.tarrdaniel.com/documents/Thelemagick/essay/english/Hartmann_Secret_Symbols_of_the_Rosicrucians.html

YOU HAVE TO BE FAMILIAR WITH THOUGHT FORMS, EGREGORES, THE ANIMA MUNDI, AND THE SPIRIT WORLD TO UNDERSTAND THIS. IF YOU ARE NOT, AND YOU THINK ABOUT THESE THINGS PURELY IN THE SENSE OF CARNAL PHYSICAL REALITY, THEN YOU WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO MAKE ANY SENSE OUT OF IT OR UNDERSTAND IT AT ALL. OBVIOUSLY, THE ASSOCIATIONS, LIKE WITH THE SUN FOR EXAMPLE BEING A FEMININE SYMBOL, ARE VERY DIFFERENT. WHEN YOU READ THIS, IF YOU ALREADY HAVE PREDISPOSITIONS FOR YOUR SYMBOLOGY, YOU NEED TO MAKE A CONSCIOUS EFFORT TO USE THE SYMBOLOGY OF THE TEXT INSTEAD OF YOUR OWN, OR EVERYTHING WILL BECOME MIXED UP AND UNINTELLIGIBLE.

The reference to “old man” is likely done so that we can make the connection with the male Jackal since both the second and third experiments were done to make sure that a being like the Jackal would never be born on Earth again.

The first sounds of the smithy began to be heard. They penetrated into the depths of the Earth and reached the Seventh Ancestor, whom men [humans] had killed. As the rhythmic sounds of the bellows blowing up the fire and the hammer striking the anvil came down to him [her], the Seventh Ancestor Nummo took his [her] spirit form of a human trunk ending in a reptile. Rising up on his [her] tail, with regular movement of his [her] arms held in front of him [her] and rhythmic jerks of his [her] body he [she] swam into the first dance movements, which brought him [her] underground to the tomb of the old man.

To the rhythm of the work of the Smith, he [she] made his [her] way to the north of the body where the skull was and proceeded to swallow it. He [She] took it into his [her] womb and gave new life to it. Then always in time to the same sounds, he [she] expelled into the tomb a torrent of water and the transformed being. On the place where the body had been, this water, symbol of rushing torrents and of stagnant pools, lay in a great sheet, from which issued five rivers flowing in the directions of the head and the limbs.

The water was also the water of parturition. The Nummo’s womb had transformed the man’s bones into coloured stones and ejected them into the bottom of the tomb so as to form the outline of a skeleton laid out flat on its back in the place where the body had been, with its head to the north.

This passage describes the oldest man’s death and how his (her) consciousness was taken into the Seventh Ancestor’s womb, where he (she) was given new life and transformed into a new being. The “rhythmic sounds of the bellows” made by the Smith alerted the Seventh Ancestor to Lébé’s death. The entire process was orchestrated to a rhythmic motion. It was done to the “rhythm of the work of the Smith.” Music, dancing, and rhythm were all associated with the expression of the “Third Word”.

The Master (Mistress) of Speech heard the first sounds of the smithy and went to the grave of Lébé. “To the rhythm of the work of the Smith, he [she] made his [her] way to the north of the body where the skull was, and proceeded to swallow it... Then always in time to the same sounds, he [she] expelled into the tomb a torrent of water and the transformed being." Water here becomes a symbol of the eternal essence. It is identified with the Nummos’ essence and the waters of the womb. It gives us an image of rebirth.

When the Master (Mistress) of Speech ate Lébé, who was the Eighth Ancestor, the old man and the Seventh Ancestor became one. It was similar to the people eating the Seventh Ancestor. The eating signifies the union between humans and the Nummo. It shows how Lébé was regenerated using the Master (Mistress) of Speech’s DNA.

Some key symbols are fire, sun, smithy, hammer, anvil, granary, and seed. Fire is the soul or spiritual essence of the Nummo, which is associated with the sun and their biological nature. The hammer and anvil together symbolize the Nummo, the hammer being their male aspect, and the anvil being their female aspect. Both the granary and the smithy symbolize the Nummo spaceship, where the biological engineering occurred. The seed is the human seed, or DNA. The meanings of these symbols were determined by cross-referencing them with their meanings in other stories in the Dogon religion. The symbols need to be understood in an overall context to make sense. It is important to remember that this mythology was created in an oral culture and its symbolism is what holds it together.

In Ogotemmêli’s story, the Smith, or Jackal, steals a piece of sun in the form of fire from the Nummo workshop. Throughout the Dogon religion, the sun symbolized the female sex and was identified with the androgynous Nummo, who were perceived as being more feminine than masculine. Sun and fire were interchangeable because the Nummos’ spiritual essence, symbolized by fire, was inextricably connected to their DNA. Their genetic experiment failed because the Nummo initially thought their spiritual essence was separate from their DNA. They discovered too late that their spiritual essence was connected to their biological essence. This was also why the smithy and the granary were seen as one. Fire, or the spiritual essence, was stored in the smithy, just as the seed, or DNA, was stored in the granary. The smithy and granary were the same structure, which also happened to be the Nummo spaceship. The fact the Nummo were known as “Heaven’s Smiths” reinforces the importance of the Smith and the smithy to the Dogon religion.

In this story, the Smith, or Jackal, is chased by the Nummo. The female and male fires shot at him are symbolic of the Nummos’ androgynous essence. To protect himself from the Nummos’ fire, he raises the skin of the bellows, which holds the essence of the sun. The skin of the bellows symbolizes human skin, or the biological nature of humans. The passage is telling us that the Nummos’ spiritual essence, which is tied to Nummo DNA, cannot prevail against the spiritual essence of humans, which is tied to human or Earth animal DNA. Even though it is underdeveloped in relation to the Nummos’ DNA, it is still connected to the Earth animals, and the Nummos’ DNA cannot override it or change it. The dual fires of the Nummo show how their spiritual essence is eventually changed in humans when they become single-sexed beings and lose their androgyny and immortality.

The biological and spiritual connection is reiterated in the story when Ogotemmêli says that without the fire of the smithy and the iron of hoes, there wouldn’t be any crops to store. The fire in the smithy makes the iron hoes which are used to work the fields. Without the help of the hoes, the seeds won’t germinate properly and the crops won’t grow. Ogotemmêli is saying that the seeds rely on the fire. In other words, the seeds which symbolize human seed or DNA rely on the smithy’s fire, which symbolizes the sun, and indirectly the spiritual nature of Nummo and humans.

Ogotemmêli further states that the name for granary is “stolen” to remind the Dogon of the connection between the fire, the seed, the smithy, and the granary. The word for stolen is Gouyo, which was still part of the language in the 1940s. It also meant granary.

It may tell how it was a group of individuals born like the Jackal who were involved in the ship’s crash. It is possible that because they didn’t understand the androgynous Nummo and were separated from the Nummos’ spiritual essence, the male offspring rebelled against them. The Jackal may be symbolic of that male rebellion.

~The Master of Speech by Shannon Dorey~

learn more or purchase her books at https://www.shannondorey.com/

MY WORK IN THE FIELD OF SPIRITUALITY TO A GREAT EXTENT HAS BEEN TO HELP THE NUMMO FULLY SOLVE THE PROBLEMS THEY ARE HAVING. WHEN I ASKED THE LAST MIMSY LORDS OF DARK CITY WHAT I COULD DO TO HELP, I NEVER DREAMED I WOULD BE GIVEN SO MUCH KNOWLEDGE BY THEM AND SUCH A GREAT OPPORTUNITY. TOGETHER WE HAVE WORKED TO CREATE A NEW HYBRID SOUL SUPER LEBE. BASICALLY, WHEN I OFFERED TO HELP THEM THEY TOOK THE OPPORTUNITY, WERE INVOLVED IN GIVING ME A CONTRACT, THEN PROCEEDED TO FULLY ACTIVATE ALL OF MY FACULTIES, THE SEVEN SUNS AND ALL SOUL SHEATHS IN GENERAL, THEN THEY PUT ME IN MY SPIRIT FORM THROUGH THEIR PROCESS OF IMMORTALIZATION AND CRYSTALLIZATION IN THE MIND AND WOMB OF THE GREAT MOTHER GODDESS DRAGON, AND THEN THROUGH RESIDENT AFFINITY PROCEEDED TO COMBINED IN SOMETHING LIKE A MARRIAGE UNION MYSELF IN THAT STATE AND THEIR CURRENT LEBE MASTER OF SPEECH, IN THE CENTER CHAMBER OF THE MASTERCRAFT OF THE BLACK SUN, WHICH IS SAID TO BE UNDERNEATH THE SEAT OF THE SMITH, WHERE AT THE EXACT CENTER IT WILL BE BROADCASTED TO ALL THE OTHERS EVERYWHERE. NO MATTER WHERE THEY MAY BE, ALL NUMMO THEN WILL BE ABLE TO GET THE BENEFITS OF THE HYBRID SUPER LEBE THAT GOES BEYOND THE MASTER OF SPEECH, BY COMBINING WITH MY FULLY ACTIVATED HUMAN SOUL, TO THE MASTER OF SIGHT. IT TURNS THEM INTO A COLLECTIVE WITH A SINGLE MASCULINE CENTER, WHILE AT THE SAME TIME YOU MUST UNDERSTAND THAT THEY HAVING THEIR OWN MASCULINE CENTER NOW, CANNOT BE ADVERSELY AFFECTED BY THE MASCULINE CENTERS OF THE HUMANS THEY CALL THE JACKALS THAT HAVE CAUSED THEM SO MANY PROBLEMS. THAT ALSO MEANS THEY HAVE FULL CONTROL OF THE ENTIRE SPECTRUM OF FREQUENCIES WITHIN THE FEMININE OCTAVE OF EXISTENCE, AND THAT GIVES THEM THE ABILITY TO UTILIZE ANY HUMAN AVATARS THEY WANT REGARDLESS OF THOSE HUMAN AVATARS ACTIVATIONS OF THE JACKAL PHENOMENON. THEY CAN COMPLETELY OVERRIDE THE JACKAL IN HUMAN BEINGS NOW, AND THAT SOLVES THE PROBLEM.

I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE THINKING, THAT GIVING THE NUMMO THE ABILITY TO COMPLETELY CONTROL AND OVERRIDE HUMAN-FREE WILL IN THIS WAY MIGHT BE A BAD THING, AND YOU'RE WRONG. ALL THE PROBLEMS IN THIS WORLD HAVE BEEN CAUSED BY THE SEPARATION OF THE WATER ELEMENT FROM US AS HUMANS. THE NUMMO REPRESENT THAT WATER ELEMENT RE-ADDED INTO US, WHICH WILL MAKE THEIR EXPERIMENT A SUCCESS, AND WHICH WILL THEN ALLOW BY THEIR COMPLETE CONTROL AND THE ELIMINATION OF ALL DETRIMENTAL VARIABLES, THE ABILITY FOR THEM TO INSTITUTE THEIR HIGH TECHNOLOGY TO CREATE THE MAGICK KINGDOM GARDEN OF EDEN PARADISE THAT I OFTEN SPEAK OF IN MY WRITINGS, AND OF COURSE THAT IMPLIES THAT THEY WILL COMPLETELY HEAL THE PLANET OF ALL THE DAMAGE IT HAS INCURRED. THE REPTILE ELEMENT OF THE HUMAN MIND IS MEANT TO BE THE ELEMENT OF REGULATION, EVEN OF THE HEART AND LUNGS, BECAUSE ALL THESE THINGS HAVE TO BE REGULATED AND COORDINATED IN ORDER TO KEEP THE BIOLOGICAL BEING ALIVE. LET ME SAY THAT AGAIN, EVEN THE HEART IN NATURE IS DESIGNED TO BE REGULATED BY THE REPTILIAN R-COMPLEX, THE REPTILIAN PART OF THE BRAIN. WHEN THE HEART TRIES TO TAKE CONTROL OF THE REPTILIAN R-COMPLEX INSTEAD OF BEING REGULATED BY IT, THE HEART IS COMPLETELY BLIND TO THE PROPER NEEDS AND CARE OF THE BODY TEMPLE AND WILL STEER YOU RIGHT OFF A CLIFF, WHICH WILL ULTIMATELY CAUSE THE DESTRUCTION OF THE PLANET AND ALL BIOLOGICAL ELEMENTS THERE ON. WITH HUMANS GAINING THE ABILITY TO MAKE AND USE NUCLEAR WEAPONS, AS WELL AS THE LEVELS OF DAMAGE THEY'VE ALREADY CAUSED TO PLANET EARTH, IT HAS BEEN ABSOLUTELY CRUCIAL FOR THE HIGHER POWERS, THE NUMMO, TO FIND AND INSTITUTE A SOLUTION BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE. THAT IS WHY I WAS WILLING TO HELP THEM AND WHY I TOOK IT ALL THE WAY, BECAUSE IN THE END IT WILL BE SEEN THAT IT WAS WHAT WAS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY. THERE ARE SO MANY PEOPLE ON THE PLANET LIVING IN SUCH A STATE OF MISERY RIGHT NOW, THEY HAVE NO ELECTRICITY AND LIVE ON LESS THAN A DOLLAR A DAY, AND THEY MAKE UP THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE ON PLANET EARTH. THEIR DESIRE FOR HEALING, OR EVEN JUST ANY KIND OF RELIEF FROM THE MISERY, FAR OUTWEIGHS ANY VOTES OF ONLY 1% OF THE HUMAN POPULATION, THE ONES HOARDING ALL THE WEALTH. THIS WAY, EVERYONE CAN HAVE A GOOD LIFE AND A GOOD QUALITY OF LIFE. WE HAVE GREAT THINGS TO LOOK FORWARD TO AS THE ANCIENT ONES AND THE OLD GODS RETURN TO POWER ON PLANET EARTH!

LONG LIVE THE EMPIRE OF THE BLACK SUN AND THE GUARDIAN SPIRIT SERPENTINE DRAGONS!

~I am the Heart of the Hydra, the Heart of Goddess Isis, I am AtumRa-AmenHotep, I am Aeon Horus.

I am Divine Chronos, the Yaldaboath Demiurge Metamorphosed, I am the Singularity of the Master Craft of the Black Sun.

Azazil-Iblis-Maymon, Abzu-Osiris-Typhon-Kukulkan, Nummo-Naga.

Mégisti-Generator Starphire~

#illuminati #illuminator #illuminated #lightbearer #morningstar #lucifer #Draconian #anunnaki #enki #enlil #anu #inanna #dumuzi #hermes #trismegistus #Azazel #starfamily #horus #Demiurge #Sophia #archon #AI #blacksun #saturn #iblis #jinn #Maymon #ibis #thoth #egypt #esoteric #magick #dogon #dogontribe #digitaria #nummo #nommo #Naga #tiamat #serpent #dragon #gnosis #gnostic #gnosticism #Anzu #watcher #watchtower #yaldaboath #Sirius #scientology #aleistercrowley #typhon #echidna #ancientaliens #TheGrays #grayaliens #aliens

[spiritualpour]

There will always be someone who will try you. 

Try to put you down, where they believe your place ”should” be. 

Try to sour the taste of your name flowing off other people’s tongue.

Try to undercut your abilities, your triumphs and your accomplishments through out your life by squashing it with some false truths. 

Try to sell you up river for 30 pieces of silver and pretend they are high in cotton for a soul they never owned or had rights to in the first place. 

Try to show your faults but forget how they made you human & actually fortified you to receive the call in the first place. 

It is bc they legit cannot perceive favor. 

Favor comes to the worthy. 

The worthy have proven literally through blood, sweat and tears that they are worthy of God’s favor. 

They’ve gone through the brimstone fighting from hell and back against all the enemies thrown at them due to jealousy from small minds, envy from blocked Vision and straight up trifling folks who are pissed bc they failed at their directives. 

They’ve gone through the 7th level of hell, fought the essence of the Devil & came back on fire to light the world as prophesied. 

They’ve known death very well as they are constantly bowing to death before shedding the people, places & things that no longer serve them throughout their lives in order to break cycles. 

That, beloveds, is called divinely chosen. 

These who are the worthy wear what is called “the breastplate of God”. It signifies they have been ordained and sanctified by God himself to walk the path they walk. No matter what is, has or will be done to them, they will always fight another day bc God has favored them. 

That’s why they are favored. 

You can identify these people by the crosses they carry such as:

•lone wolf

•burden barrier

•kind despite the opposition 

•compassionate despite the lack of support 

•virtuous bc their eyes remain on God. 

•generous bc they know what it is to be without 

•truth giving bc they have been lied about, lied on and manipulated by every soul they come across, yet they still remain loving bc they are filled with God’s anointing love. 

•survived the worst of the world as it has rose up in the road to greet them with.

•they have sinned with the best of them, learned the lessons, broke the cycles and came forward to answer the Call God has given over their life. 

That is why they remain with God’s favor. 

It’s not because they just lucky or they were just given divine favor bc it’s them. It is bc they have proven they are worthy by the trials and tribulations they bear. 

People get surprised about this but yet, if they would have read the book given to them at indoctrination, The Bible is clear that everyone, saved or lost, will go through trials and tribulations.

 “All who desire to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted” (2 Tim 3:12) so “do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you.  But rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed.  If you are insulted for the name of Christ, you are blessed, because the Spirit of glory and of God rests upon you” (1 Pet 4:12-14).  

Yesterday, I posted the word on people doing shit to others then get upset when God favors the fallen who have been struck down bc of their favor. 

That joker is in there too.

 “Blessed are you when others revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you” (Matt 5:0-12). 

See? I ain’t playing picture pages over here. It’s in the word. 

As I said: God is in the details coming in clutch with divine favor. 

These people can try to knock you to whatever peg they believe you should thrive at, reveal your nudes, claim your sultry, naughty past, or even post pics of the nights you decided to get dirty and shoot the moon. 

Name a divine prophet or an apostle who ain’t sinned heavy and see if God himself don’t slap them to sleep. 

This is exactly why Jesus does not hang with those who have already found, knew & break bread with God. He partied with the fallen who need that mustard seed replanted. Right?

God does not call the qualified. 

He knows they can do it. 

He qualifies the call by showing the power of his people in their rise from the dust and the dirt into a mighty warrior who is worthy of being favored. 

He said sin but sin no more- meaning once you have done it and been enlightened that this situation ain’t popping or proper, don’t do the shit again. So they won’t. They have mastered themselves and understand while minding God’s directives. 

They listen. 

And that is why those are the people who are worthy of God’s favor. 

Enjoy your day & be glad in it, beloved. 

Remain a blessing & watch how God shows favor in your life. Cause Hell & the worst Hell has to offer will rise up in the road to greet you. 

The choice has always been yours. 

Dios de Bendiga. 🫶🏻

[darlingpwease]

Everyone: yuuta has gone insane

Yuuta: *chatting and getting praised by spirit reader*

“... Yuuta, who are you... talking to?..”

“With my eternal beloved♡♡♡”

“NO-”

Mean- everyone was sure that Yuuta was distraught after your death, considering how detached and unrestrained he became, completely immersed in his feelings and unable to cope with your death, so when he gets out, even if very crumpled and not yet fully restored. His dark circles are even bigger and he still looks rumpled, but his eyes shine like stars and he sounds much better than before and during that event, so everyone pretends like nothing happened.

... Yuuta himself breaks this agreement before anyone else. When he is caught talking to himself, he only gently happily replies that everything is fine — he was just talking to you, you were so glad that he finally got out and returned to normal life. It is then that a new stage of leapfrog begins, where they try to gently convince him at first that he is delusional, you are dead, but his passive aggressive reaction is enough to make such 'gestures of goodwill disappear' — at least for a while.

Yuuta has already heard enough from them, he doesn't need to hear anything more about you if he can hear it from you personally. You haven't left him, and that's the only thing that matters.

... Everyone tries to get used to it when becomes clear that Yuuta cannot part with his fixation on you — at least he no longer spends a month alone with your corpse (which for some reason disappeared) and does not try to convince everyone that you are alive, simply ignoring others. This is already progress, maybe one day he will wake up and be able to let you go. If his imagination of you as a still living being helps him cope, then there is nothing strange about it — except for his mutterings, which look creepy when he is alone, but everything is fine, they understand.

You also understand everything — telling him how well he copes and that because of such a trifle he should not give up his destiny. Hey, you even came alive to follow him so that nothing could distract him — he should treat this not only as indulging him.

You understand that it's hard for him, but he's too good to let such a little thing (your physical death) break everything that you have created together. Unfortunately, he's the only one you can rely on, but you know he can handle it — and even if he doesn't, you won't blame him... but you wish he could.

Nothing can separate.

“go, my baby! do it, honey! you're so good! you can do it! it was amazing! you are beautiful and amazing! I love you! come on, my beloved! precious moonboy! I believe in you, I will always be with you!”

“... Yuuta is smiling strangely alone... again”

[oonajaeadira]

Long Fall Into Oblivion (Ezra x reader)

(header by sirtadcooper - check out the whole beautiful set here.)

Rating: Mature. 

Pairing: Ezra (post-Prospect film) x f!reader

Warnings: Non-explicit sex. Some swears maybe (think there’s a f*ck in there somewhere, my GOODNESS). A lot of gooey, syrupy, soft fluffety fluff. Author attempts at writing Ezra dialogue. A lot of chewy prose.

A/N: I can’t believe I’m posting this, but here goes. I love Ezra. He is a man of questionable morality and an insufferable tongue and I really shouldn’t. But I really do. I just wanted to give him a try. I’ve softened him up here, putting a few years on him so maybe he’s fluffed up some since the events in the film. Also I just ignored the fade or assumed that aurelac mining was still happening because scarcity/demand. Doesn’t matter. Just wanted to go exploring.

Summary: You take a job as an aurelac prospecting trainee and Ezra shows you the ropes. You’re gonna fall in love with him. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

TAGLIST: you can always request to be on the taglist for this or any of my work. If you’d like to be on taglists for upcoming fic, please sign up here –> TAGLIST

MASTERLIST

________________

Bakhroma is one of the smallest gas giants in the sector, but as you stand on the surface of the Green Moon, it dominates the entire horizon, pulling your focus, threatening to engulf everything around it. You almost feel sorry for the lush moon as you walk through its undergrowth, so gentle and full of beauty, destined many years after you’re gone to give its life to her.

A moon is an orbiting admirer, and what is an orbit but a long fall to oblivion?

There’s a painful, sour ache in your heart as you walk back to the camp in twilight, watching the back of Ezra’s helmet bob along in front of you. You’d spent two days digging that claim only to find the weakest aurelac nest you’ve seen yet, only three viable nodes. You’d dug through one of them by accident and completely melted another like an incompetent fool. Kevva’s ass, you were such a disappointment. Three months in the Green and you still can’t cut a blister out properly. Not even once.

Ezra’s shoulders are wide and tense, his one hand splayed out as he walks, running over the tops of the tall ferns, catching one every now and then only to rip the top away, twirl it between his gloved fingers and toss it impatiently aside.

The other two members of your team headed out on a sling this morning, another two will be arriving in a few days. And you wonder if Ez regrets just not cutting his losses and leaving with them, or at least sending you back in exchange for another kip.

You think about shifting through the comm channels, hoping that he’s chattering away in one of them, switched without your knowledge, but it’s a lost cause. You can hear him breathing on the channel between you. It’s not often Ezra has nothing to say.

________________

You thought your father was leaving you an inheritance. It’s not the reason you took care of him through his illness, but you’d dropped everything to be back home with him through his final months. In a way, it was a blessing, a reason to quit the Dasha factory and the terrible working conditions there, come back home and focus on your dad, relive good memories, just spend time. The reconnection lifted your heart, but his death sank it low again. When you learned he had nothing to leave you but a small house and some old vehicles, you sold what you could and traded in the rest.

Then you had nothing. No family, no job, little savings, questionable future. It almost broke your spirit. But the last few months with your father rekindled your love of him as he told you about his years in the Fringe, mining and prospecting. And your heart had said, “what the hell, let’s try that.” So you listened.

It took some time to track down the right inroads, but you were able to find some ads for prospecting teams, in particular those who were willing to take on members in training for a re-distributed cut. With all provisions included--other than suit and gear, which your father’s inheritance neatly covered--it seemed like just as good of a deal as any, and an adventure to boot.

But the reality was, every team you met with was full of hardened men, and while you were not a soft Central woman, you also weren’t overly versed in weaponry and didn’t know if you could defend yourself out in the Fringe against attack if things got crusty.

You were just about ready to admit defeat when you walked into yet another conference bunker and found your match. The first thing you noticed was that he was standing when you arrived, waiting for you politely rather than manspread at the table. Second were his eyes. Deep, brown, and sad. Maybe sad was the wrong word, certainly it seemed by the lines in his face, possibly by the missing arm, that he’d seen enough sadness, but toward you, it read more as concern. You wouldn’t know it until later when he confessed his feelings about this first meeting, but he was worried you wouldn’t choose him. Ezra had a hell of a time hiring partners. He may have been one of the longest-working aurelac diggers out there, but young kippers saw his greying beard and seasoned diggers saw his lacking arm and they all tended to turn around and walk out before he even said hello. So he’d tried to put himself out there as a trainer, show that he had something more to offer.

It didn’t hurt his feelings when you admitted to him later that those qualities were exactly why you chose him. He seemed the opposite of threatening. And his eyes were bright when he smiled at you. With his thrumming baritone and his Fringe twang and his mixed deck of mosaic words, he had a way of speaking that felt like a fluffy blanket curling around you, your brain vibrating with comfort at every new monologue. He was eccentric and perhaps a little jarringly rough in his humor at times, but there was something about him that you trusted immediately, even though you’d come to learn later you probably shouldn’t have if you were being overly cautious.

Not that your judgement ever came to detriment. Not that he ever proved you wrong that way. Not when it came to you. But the man was dangerous when he had to be in a way you hadn’t initially picked up on.

________________

You hadn’t been out in the Green two weeks before you looked up from the bottom of a dig hole to see Ezra standing over you with a thrower.

“You get down and you stay down, understand?”

“Ez? What--”

“I said stay down! Do not make me waste words on mere repetition!” The fuzzy blanket of his voice replaced suddenly by a snarling, snapping brush wolf, a quick change hitting you like a slap in the ear.

There’d been pops and whizzes as shots rang through and you did as your trainer said, face down, the view of your visor giving you nothing but dirt. Your helmet was a chorus of quick breathing from both of you and sweat rolled down your neck as you begged the eyes of Kevva to look down upon your partner. When the crossfire faded, you’d heard Ezra stalk away. Then there were a couple more shots. Then more footsteps returning.

“You are permitted to stand, trinket. All is well as it can be for us. But not so much for our dearly departed friends.” These words were as soothing as much as his previous ones had burned, and he simply went back to working at the dig at hand as if he’d just come back from taking a leak. It wasn’t until you left the site that evening that you tramped past two rotting raiders, gaudily outfitted with broken face shields, left to let the Green take them.

Ezra whistled as he stepped over them, stopping only to harvest their filters and munition rods, which he tossed your way to stow in your pack, and then continued lazily down the path toward camp. Just another day on the job. 

He may be a little peculiar and not someone to trifle with, he may have just killed two people without remorse or further comment, but his lack of reassuring words told you that this was just part of the deal. You wear the suit, you use the air scrubber in the tent, you follow the landing pod instructions as written, and you defend yourself against those who wish to harm you. Survival by any and all means is paramount, mundane, and something he has no qualms with on any level.

There was something deep down inside of you that instinctually pulled you to follow him, not just down the literal path before you, but whatever path Ezra chose to wander.

________________

Before you’d left the station with him, he’d taken you to a thrower range to gauge your skill which was decent in theory, but dismal compared with what he could do. No matter, he still patiently taught you how to properly clean and charge a weapon and the best way to breathe and pull the trigger; “like you’re taking hold of a man’s...well... Just go easy and firm.” He suggested you should come and practice every day before lift off and then hope to Kevva that you didn’t have to rely too heavily on it.

“If I find myself in a coffin of my own suit, then feel free to defend yourself as a final means of preservation. Otherwise, when it comes down to shots fired, best to let me do the dirty work. Might as well keep the blood where the blood has been.”

You’d been a little nervous about sharing a freighter pod alone with him, but Ezra was...well, not so much a gentleman as just a comfortable soul. 

He always waited until you were hungry to eat, thinking it rude to eat alone in front of you. He never moved around the pod while you were sleeping, content to keep still with a book in his cot. And if you couldn’t sleep, he was always willing to read to you from whatever impossibly dense old world classic he was digging through for the umpteenth time, letting his voice come up from the deeps and pull you gently under. If you asked permission to turn on the radio, he’d ask you “why Isn’t it on yet, woman,” quietly tolerating your taste in harsh and gleeful babblecore pshcyopop. In the later days of the journey, he’d even come to dance with you from time to time, although both of you were dismal at it and ended up with you in a fit of giggles. It was a sure-fire way to cure a case of the pouts you carried through from the morning fitness sessions when he beat you at pushups. Again.

When it came to privacy in the tight space, he had a habit of turning away without having to be asked or stopping his stream of talk when you went to change clothes, just happily chattering away until you called the all clear. Although he was not squeamish about his own state of undress, should you happen to catch it by accident. While he was respectful of your privacy, he seemed to need none of his own, but neither did he flaunt anything. You might look up from studying the flight manual to notice he was changing into a fresh pair of compression pants, tugging them on haphazardly with one hand, more concerned with telling you the overwhelmingly disgusting manufacturing process of Bits Bars than his own ass hanging out where you might see it. At least he always changed facing away from you which was a kindness.

Until it wasn’t.

After you realized you’d fallen quietly in love with him--a sudden, soft moment on the Green--then you’d admit only privately to yourself that you wouldn’t mind if you accidentally saw a little more than the occasional shirtless attire he might wear around the tent.

But in the pod, the only part of him that had caught your curiosity was his stump, and you’d known Ezra intensely enough over the past couple of weeks where you knew he wouldn’t take offense. Especially if you asked him the right way.

“Will you tell me a story, Ezra?”

“I feel that it is my duty to do so whether you ask me to or not. Shall I choose, or is there something in particular you would like to hear?”

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, propped up against his cot, going through his kit, cleaning his gear. You waited until he noticed your lack of answer and looked up to meet your eyes. When he saw that you had put your manual down and were focusing all your quiet attention on him, he stopped his busy work. 

When Ezra gives you his attention, it is absolute. When he knows you seriously need something from him, that becomes his immediate main priority and all else can wait. It’s only gotten more intense since that day, but there is a trust that resides between you when you look into his eyes, gathering your words as he waits patiently every time to hear whatever you’re going to request of him. There’s always hope there in his big browns, always something specific he’s waiting for you to ask, and every day you get a little bit closer to understanding what it might be. But until then, any question is a welcome one, any query is met with his wish to provide.

“Will you tell me how you lost your arm?”

At first you thought you may have gone too far, that maybe you insulted him, as his eyebrows peaked together and he looked down at his hand. But then, “That is a tale that may cause you some consternation, trinket. The Green is dangerous and unforgiving, and there were times I may not have been a man worthy of fair opinion.”

“My father was a prospector, you know. I’ve heard stories. Have you ever killed anyone?”

He clicked his tongue and screwed up an eye, causing the thin white scar on his cheek to twist. Then he sighed and returned to your locked gaze. “To be honest, I have. Though I have never done so with pleasure, I have killed in defense and out of desperation, and it was out of dispatching a man in this way that I came to lose the second favorite of all my appendages.”

“Second favorite?”

“Well, it depends what you classify as a limb.” He huffed a small laugh, a spark in his eye, trying to diffuse the harsh subject in his own way.

His leaning into baseness never bothered you. There was something earthy about it, gritty and rough, but never lewd. You rewarded his crassness with a smile. “Do you plan on killing me out in the Green?”

“I would hope my murdering days are behind me, and if they are not, you would see me aim a thrower at everyone but you in the course of my spree. You are under my tutelage, and for that, I owe you a duty of care. That is my word by Kevva.”

“Then tell me the story. I like your stories. I promise not to judge now-Ezra by then-Ezra.”

A dimple formed on his cheek, a punctuation mark framing the approaching anecdote on his lips. “Then I will declare myself absolved of any sin heretofore and regale you with a clean and grateful heart.”

________________

You can see the tent through the trees and you realize with some horror that it’s just you and Ezra for the next few nights. If he’s angry with you, and this is how he is when he’s upset, the silence will be unbearable.

Even that little girl he helped out here years ago was probably more capable than you. You feel so lost in this moment, and it’s only made worse by his silence. You fumble with your communicator and hit the mute just in time to choke on a sob.

This isn’t like you. You’re not one to cry when things get rough. You hardly shed a tear when your father died. But the thought of that just brings another sob and as acting as your own psychologist you realize that you are experiencing some displaced sorrow, the odd need to please the leading male in your life, the one that’s walking ahead of you, away from you. If he’d just turn around and throw you his worn weary smile, if he’d just start up a conversation you’d know that there was hope for you, you’d know you didn’t give up everything to be here in a job you couldn’t hack.

You gotta stop this. Or it’s going to be an uncomfortable night.

Shake it off.

Once you enter the tent, the usual dance happens. Ezra reaches up to turn on the air scrubber and you unhook his filter tube from his helmet. When he turns to you, you pull open the zipper cover on his suit and start his zip for him before lifting his helmet up and off. He can pull the zip the rest of the way, but you generally pull the left collar down for him so he can get his arm out. He’s on his own from there as you turn to fuss with your own gear. 

________________

You remember it starting easily enough. He was telling you a story about the breeding habits of the Tokovian Musk Owl and you could see he was having trouble with his suit zipper, yanking at it and trying to look down at it even though it was under his chin and his helmet. Without another hand to keep the fabric taut, the zip didn’t want to release, so you simply batted his hand away and started it for him. He didn’t even stop his yammering, just threw in a “thank you” somewhere in between “could hear them screeching” and “for a fuck.” He’d right out asked you the day before if you wouldn’t mind disengaging the filter tube just because it was delicate and he didn’t want to mangle the expensive part trying to pop it out one-handed day after day. And while he could manage the helmet fine enough, his prominent nose thanked you for a smoother removal for sure. 

It wasn’t the only routine dance you’d concocted. 

There was the harness dance.

While dig days were excruciating, you always looked forward to helping him attach the harness for his prosthesis--a kind of rigid pole attached to a shovel so you didn’t have to do all the hard digging alone. There were a couple of straps that came around his torso with multiple latches and you’d come to really enjoy wrapping your arms around him to fit the straps on. Sure, you could do the job just as easily from behind, but if you embraced him at the front, he’d usually raise his arm and let it come to rest around your shoulders while you worked. If you let yourself dream, it would be easy to imagine that he might be pressing you into him just a little bit.

And there was the harvesting dance.

On a dig, you were the one to mix the fazer and Ezra did the pour. He fished the sack, you cut the cord. You sliced the outer casing and held it open while he did the extraction. And with the flesh-covered stone, he told you every time to “hold it like you love it” so he could cut away the slippery blister before cleaning the gemstone.

It was a beautiful harmony. And the only way it worked. Because once on every dig he urged you to do a solo extraction, and on every dig, you pierced the blister and lost that stone. And on every dig, he squeezed your shoulder and told you it was a wondrous try, that he was proud of you, and there would always be another turn. There was no sarcasm, no pity, just a warm smile and ceaseless optimism even though you just lost both of you thousands in pay.

These were the first touches, these shoulder squeezes that ran down your arm on the let-go. Sometimes he would just reach out and grab onto you like a pole to help himself up, or he might stumble off balance on uneven ground and without the counterweight of his right arm he’d throw his hand out onto you to steady himself. He wasn’t beyond lightly touching the small of your back to encourage you down a path or to take your next try at a gem pull. 

This was all part of something you’ve secretly named the left-handed-lover’s dance. Basically, that you keep on his left whenever you can in case he needs your help or has the inclination to reach for you. It started out as just trying to be a good partner. Then it became a passing hope that it was more than just a friendly bond. But you were both here to do a job. He was here to teach you to be an independent prospector and you were here to assist and learn. That was evident at the end of the day; once you were both in the tent and out of the suits he never touched you, never so much as bumped into you or grazed your hand in passing an item or clapped you on the arm after a good joke. 

But out in the field all zipped in and helmets on, there was nothing more natural than his gentle hand guiding you or reaching for your assistance, including the day you realized you loved him.

________________

Before you can turn away to strip off your own coverings, Ezra catches your arm, spinning your face into the light. You try to shake him off, not wanting him to catch your eyes puffy from crying and your cheeks still streaked with tears, but his grip is not so gentle now and he yanks you back around to his stormy glare, chin up, brows low. His intensity paralyzes you, rendering you unable to continue your struggle when he catches your eyes with his.

When Ezra gives you his attention, it is absolute.

His gaze travels back and forth between your eyes, waiting for an explanation, a minute so stringent it breaks you down, dissolves you into the tears you’d tried so hard to hide.

“I’m sorry, Ezra. I really am trying... I don’t know why I’m such a scuffer at this and I know it would only be right to release you from the contract and tell you to send me back but I don’t want you to, I really wanna stay, I really wanna learn and I’m so, so sorry.”

Your words have an immediate effect, softening him, pulling his glare into concern and wonder, his lips parting just the tiniest bit in surprise.

“This is the reason for your heavy mood? You think I am provoked by your proficiency in the field?” 

“I crusted up good today and it seems like you’re not happy about it. Just...know that it means so much to me that...I don’t wanna let you down.”

“Oh, trinket, no.” An incredulous huff jumps out of him and his grip on your arm loosens, becomes a splayed warm support behind your shoulder, moving in soothing patterns and you’re instantly relieved that your assumptions were wrong. “You have done no harm in my book. It is not an easy thing to deliver a gem of this ilk into the world unscathed. Your opportunities have been few and scattered and it takes many sticks before a lover becomes a lothario.” He knows the crass humor will make you laugh, knows what to say to lighten your heart, to get you to soften, and bring you into his intimate, conspiratorial mood. “To be perfectly honest, I am selfish to an unrighteous degree, for every gem you burn keeps me in value to you. A worthy sacrifice to guarantee you mightn’t be so quick in your need to fly away from me until your training’s complete.”

This causes a hitch in your breath as you see the welcome turn the conversation he’s taking and you follow the path he’s making for you. “I don’t want to leave you, Ez.”

A smile creeps up one side of his mouth. “Well then I am a happy man. A bargain is struck! Partners it is.”

“Partners it is.”

A moment hangs between you as he rubs his thumb in slow circles on your shoulder. There’s that look in his eye again, the one where he’s waiting for you to ask the question he wants to hear from you. So close now.

Still, you’re unsure. “I guess I’m lucky I found the one person who wants an incompetent partner.”

“No, I do not, nor is it what I have and I must express my objection to your self-debasement. This work is not for the shiny, and you have not once complained about taking on the meat of the digging or the crawl of my schedule.”  His hand comes to your helmet shield and he rakes his thumb across it as if he ached to wipe away one of your staleing tears. “Those bright eyes of yours got a penchant for spotting deposits more skillfully than I could ever manage and that’s not something that can be taught; that’s talent, girl. The blistering?” He shrugs. “Even I can’t manage that without the steady help of your fine hands. You may think that your blunders in education are causing us some financial ruin, but our fortunes are creamy. I assure you, we can afford it.”

That look is still there. He’s waiting. “There’s some ‘us’ and ‘we’ in there, Ez.” Your hands drift to his sides, taking fistfuls of his compression suit top, willing him closer.

The edges of his eyes take on the crinkle you’ve come to find so much comfort in. “So there is.”

You’re almost there. You know what he wants. “Why were you so quiet on the walk back?” 

“Because for the next few days we are alone here and I have a mind full of questions I do not know how to ask you.”

“Then let me go first.” A yearning happiness settles in his brown eyes; finally. Finally you’ve found out what it is he needs you to request of him. “If I take this helmet off, are you going to kiss me, Ez?”

His eyes close in contentment and he nods, “Yes. Yes, little jewel. Yes I am, that and more. I hope I have inferred correctly that it is your wish that I do so, because I am in free fall. I feel my orbit ending and my pull to you is complete.”

_______________

“A moon is an orbiting admirer, and what is an orbit but a long fall to oblivion?”

Speculating days were some of your favorite times, just wading through the brush and looking for the telltale signs and shoots of an underlying deposit. Sometimes you came upon nests of strange groundling insects or flowers that only grew in secret. There were treasures underfoot on this poisonous moon, but if you remembered to look up as well, you might find some dangerous beauties there too. 

On that day--the one where you finally understood your heart--you’d looked up to find that you were on a cliffside overlooking a valley, the canopy a million different hues of green, the gas giant looming over half the sky in a big pink and orange semi-circle. There was a fallen log that served as a perfect seat for the perfect view and you knew Ezra wouldn’t mind if you stole a few moments to sit and to take it in. It’s just the kind of thing he’d appreciate. And you were proven right when he came up behind you, putting a hand on your shoulder to steady himself as he swung one leg then the other over the log, finding a perch next to you, spouting pretty words through the channel link--soft and low--about moons and orbits and obilvions.

“That glowing beauty is Bakhroma. She is quiet and fierce, made up of the unfathomable and the unknowable, always within sight, but out of reach and untouchable unless one would trade the honor with great sacrifice. She reflects the light that is given to her with a patience that is heretofore untold. And the Green Moon upon which we ride follows where she goes like a lovesick fool, spinning around her in a heady kind of adoration, full of secret treasures buried deep down that will ultimately one day belong to her, falling incrementally over eons until he finally loses himself in her, all his glories gladly forfeit to her welcome and inevitable embrace. Alone but together, seemingly eternal, pulled as one by the laws of a mysterious universe.”

The void that came after those words was filled with the beating of your heart, and you were sure he could hear it through the channel.

When he’d landed there beside you, you’d registered how his hand slid off your shoulder, diagonally down across your back, coming to rest at your waist, his arm draped lightly around you. Natural. Easy. Everything was warm--the colors of the sky, the care with which he kept you close as if to better hear the honey sweetness in his prose, the fire burning in your lungs and neck.

Ezra probably didn’t know that you spoke a little Vayok.

Bakh being the Vayok word for adornment. Ornament, Gem. Roma was a modifier, a diminutive. Small. Dear.

Bakhroma. Sentimental bauble. A little jewel.

In other words, a trinket.

All you wanted to do was sit down to take in the view of an entire world for a few moments, but by the time Ezra took your hand and helped you to your feet, all you saw was him.

________________

The helmet is barely off before his lips are sealed to yours in a press of greed. Even if he can’t form words when he kisses you, he can’t help but express his deep relief in a heartbreaking moan. It’s a fight to release yourself from the suit when he keeps pulling you against him and every time you try to get some space between you to work the zipper, he chuckles into your mouth, enjoying the tease and the struggle. It’s simultaneously frustrating and thrilling and you give in for a few moments just to give him what he seems to want so desperately right now.

Ezra kisses like a man starved for air, long, hard, and full of need, peeling his lips away only to come back for another breath of you until his initial want is slaked and he slows, allows for more time between his taking, his mouth starting to mumble against yours, praising you with pet names, telling you how perfect you are to him, how long he’s “fought against my more dubious natures to respect your womanly virtues and take them only when you could see in me a man worth bestowing them on.”

You’re able to use his weakness for monologuing to turn around in his vice-like embrace, finally freeing yourself of the suit and he takes the opportunity to drawl more pretty words in your ear, warning you that “I’m afraid I have been enamored of you overly long and may be extra eager in my attentions. So you just say the word if you need a slow down, gentle one, and I will do my best to comply. Although I will admit it will be a difficult endeavor indeed as I feel I am entering your atmosphere and nothing might quell this burn but finding some drowning place to land.”

Your first impression of him was of a man whose age and temperament and body would not be able to overpower you.

Your first impression was wrong.

Of course, it helps that you are willing.

It doesn’t take long for him to strip you down, and then himself. To kiss you down onto the floor. To find exactly where you like to be touched most and how long it takes for you to break from it. He has so many words for you, so many praises to sing about every part of you that is round or soft or wet, comparing you to things that are sweet and plush or celestial and holy. And when you take his favorite limb in hand--as wondrous as the rest of his body--and guide it to its fit, he plunders and harvests all you have to give him, filing you with himself, for as long as you call for it, as long as you let him. He loves you like he speaks to you: rough and drawn out, full of beautiful tangents and meandering plotlines, but in the end it is beautiful and fulfilling; you may be just a little bit confused how you got to the ending, but you’re completely in awe.

When you lay breathing heavy, staring but not seeing the ceiling of the tent, your consciousness seemingly lifted to see through it to the stars, to the glowing face of Bakhroma, you run hands through rough-chopped hair on a head laying on your chest. He’s listening to your heartbeat, waiting for it to slow down so he can start again. The air is thick--even the air scrubber can’t keep up with all your humidity--and there’s a halo around each bulb of the string lights just barely illuminating the darkness.

“How long, Ez?”

“Hm?”

“How long have you been waiting for that.”

“Most likely since the day you walked into my interview. I am a man of simple wants and you had all the right parts for my preferences.”

“For real, Ez.”

He tipped his head up to find you. “What you ask has many true answers, and I stand by the first. I have no qualms telling you of my weakness for a pretty succulence and a kind smile the likes of which you possess. But if you are asking when I knew I would have it, well, that may have been the first day you danced. Or when you asked me to read you to sleep. Or when I understood I wouldn’t let those bastard raiders get near enough to take their turn at your qualities when I had not had them myself. Or when you finally saw me as a viable person to drape your affections on; maybe it was that day too.”

“When I finally saw you as....”

“I have read many tomes and verses but none so full of beautiful passages as your face that day on the cliff. There is a difference of knowing and being. I knew the feel of your pull that day, but found I’d been in orbit all along.”

How he can live this way, twist everything into a tossed away poem...it should be exhausting. Yet you feed off it. You breathe it like air.

After another long cycle of frenzied entanglement and violent euphoria, you ask Ezra if he’d like to move to a cot, maybe get some sleep. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to walk to the dig tomorrow morning,” you confess.

“No need to worry about tomorrow,” he says, wapping his arm around you and dragging you back to him, grumbling into your ear. “We are the only prospectors in this sector and the aurelac will wait. Until our new compatriots arrive, we are officially on hiatus. Recreational mining only. Restricted to the confines of this tent. By order of your supervisor. In the interest of more precious treasures. And I intend to strike it rich.”

“Well. I’m here to assist. And learn.”

“When it comes to this dig, trinket, you are more than competent. I am no longer your trainer. Partners it is.”

“Partners it is.”

The new contract is struck, signed and sealed in kissing and in touch and a long, slow fall into inevitable oblivion.

[risingsouls]

[I’m bored tonight, so I’m going to jot down a few notes about the Gerudo pantheon I’ve considered over the years and I’ve been reconsidering in more depth recently because I might somehow link it back to some kind of power up/transformation I eventually figure out for Nabs. And world building is fun to me.]

V’riqi: Goddess of the Sand. The “mother” goddess, but more in the way that she’s the most powerful and the “queen” of the other gods. She is the patron god of the Gerudo as a whole, but is especially revered by warriors as a warrior goddess herself. She gets the name Goddess of the Sand because she is said to have created the sandy landscape on which they dwell. The youngest of the pantheon, but most powerful. She is said to have defeated Karaaq for the right to rule the gods. She was also the one to create mortal Gerudos in hers and the other gods image. Serpents, especially cobras, are sacred to her. She is also the goddess of weapons, prophecy, wind, courage, and power.

Karaaq: God of the Sun. Formerly the “king” of the gods and the only “male” in the pantheon. It is his myth and unique position as the only “male” that made way for the one male born every century becomes king law. It is said that, due to the arrogance of the early male Gerudo and their violence (both physical and systemic) toward the Gerudo women that V’riqi punished Karaaq by ensuring that only one male would be born every century. Unfortunately, the mortals created the only law of making said male their king, for they believed him to be blessed by the sun god himself and a miracle (as time went on, at least, the mortals had the good sense to take steps to ensure said male was fit to rule them after some mishaps). His sacred animal is a horse. He is also the god of health and life, the day and morning, fire, crafts, artistry, and cunning.

Ranisa: Goddess of the Moon. A more passive goddess than the previous two. She, for her known history, had little interest or involvement in the squabble over power/ruling the gods. However, as the patron goddess of death, the others still know she is not one to be trifled with. It is said that, upon creating life, she was the one who instilled mortality in them to separate the gods from mortals (maybe someday I’ll come up with a more detailed story for the WHY she did it), creating the cycle of life and death. She also serves as a guide for Gerudo to the spirit world. Her sacred animals are wolves (and probably wolfos because, though they’re monsters, they’re related). She is also the goddess of wisdom, water, stars, night and twilight, and law.

Vi and Qa’a: Goddesses of Chaos and Order. Depicted as twins, many times conjoined, and eldest of the pantheon. The original “queens” of the gods until their defeat and imprisonment by the others to keep their power in check. The more at odds they are with each other, the more tumultuous the outcome of their “outbursts.” Because they cannot be fully contained as the other gods hoped, the reverberations of their power can still be felt in the mortal realm, for better or for worse, depending on which twin “has the upper hand.” They do not have a sacred animal, but magic and monsters are said to be their creations.

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

Evening Thoughts

by Octavius Winslow

Devotional for August 15th

"For if, when we were enemies, we were reconciled to God by the death of his Son, much more, being reconciled, we shall be saved by his life." - Romans 5:10

God in Christ is the covenant God of His people. He is their God; their tender, loving, condescending Father. They may lose for a while the sight and enjoyment of this truth, but this contravenes it not; it still remains the same, unchangeable, precious, and glorious. Nothing can rob them of it. In the tempest let it be the anchorage of your faith, in darkness the pole-star of your hope. Let every circumstance-the prosperity that ensnares, and the adversity that depresses, the temptation that assails, and the slight that wounds-endear to your believing soul this precious thought, "God reconciled-God at peace-God a Father in Christ is my God forever and ever, and He will be my guide even unto death."

This thought is in the highest degree soothing, comforting, and encouraging. It seems to introduce us into the very pavilion of God’’s heart. There, curtained and shut in, we may repose in perfect peace. Not a single perfection can a believing mind view in Christ but it smiles upon him. Oh! to see holiness and justice, truth and love, bending their glance of sweetest and softest benignity upon a poor, trembling soul, approaching to hide itself beneath the shadow of the cross! What a truth is this! All is sunshine here. The clouds are scattered, the darkness is gone, the tempest is hushed, the sea is a calm. Justice has lost its sting, the law its terror, and sin its power: the heart of God is open, the bosom of Jesus bleeds, the Holy Spirit draws, the gospel invites, and now the weary and the heavy-laden may draw near to a reconciled God in Christ. Oh, were ever words sweeter than these, "God was in Christ, reconciling the world unto Himself, not imputing their trespasses unto them." "Whom God has set forth to be a propitiation, through faith in His blood." "He is able to save to the uttermost those who come unto God by Him."

If to view God in Christ is a comforting truth, it is also a most sanctifying truth. Why has God revealed Himself in Jesus? To evince the exceeding hatefulness of sin, and to show that nothing short of such a stupendous sacrifice could remove it, consistently with the glory of the Divine nature, and the honor of the Divine government. Each sin, then, is a blow struck at this transcendent truth. The eye averted from it, sin appears a trifle; it can be looked at without indignation, tampered with without fear, committed without hesitation, persisted in without remorse, gloried in without shame, confessed without sorrow. But when Divine justice is seen drinking the very heart’’s blood of God’’s only Son in order to quench its infinite thirst for satisfaction-when God in Christ is seen in His humiliation, suffering, and death, all with the design of pardoning iniquity, transgression, and sin, how fearful a thing does it seem to sin against this holy Lord God! How base, how ungrateful, appears the act, in view of love so amazing, of grace so rich, and of glory so great! Cultivate a constant, an ardent thirst for holiness. Do not be discouraged, if the more intensely the desire for sanctification rises, the deeper and darker the revelation of the heart’’s hidden evil. The struggle may be painful, the battle may be strong, but the result is certain, and will be a glorious victory-VICTORY, through the blood of the Lamb!

[gerudospiriit]

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[I apologize now for first, taking so long to get to this and second, being lazy and just plopping this down here BUT.

Have the Gerudo gods I made up :'3]

V’riqi: Goddess of the Sand. The “mother” goddess, but more in the way that she’s the most powerful and the “queen” of the other gods. She is the patron god of the Gerudo as a whole, but is especially revered by warriors as a warrior goddess herself. She gets the name Goddess of the Sand because she is said to have created the sandy landscape on which they dwell. The youngest of the pantheon, but most powerful. She is said to have defeated Karaaq for the right to rule the gods. She was also the one to create mortal Gerudos in hers and the other gods image. Serpents, especially cobras, are sacred to her. She is also the goddess of weaponry, wind, courage, and power.

Karaaq: God of the Sun. Formerly the “king” of the gods and the only “male” in the pantheon. It is his myth and unique position as the only “male” that made way for the one male born every century becomes king law. It is said that, due to the arrogance of the early male Gerudo and their violence (both physical and systemic) toward the Gerudo women that V’riqi punished Karaaq by ensuring that only one male would be born every century. Unfortunately, the mortals created the only law of making said male their king, for they believed him to be blessed by the sun god himself and a miracle (as time went on, at least, the mortals had the good sense to take steps to ensure said male was fit to rule them after some mishaps). His sacred animal is a horse. He is also the god of health and life, prophecy, the day and morning, fire, crafts, artistry, and cunning.

Ranisa: Goddess of the Moon. A more passive goddess than the previous two. She, for her known history, had little interest or involvement in the squabble over power/ruling the gods. However, as the patron goddess of death, the others still know she is not one to be trifled with. It is said that, upon creating life, she was the one who instilled mortality in them to separate the gods from mortals (maybe someday I’ll come up with a more detailed story for the WHY she did it), creating the cycle of life and death. She also serves as a guide for Gerudo to the spirit world. Her sacred animals are wolves (and probably wolfos because, though they’re monsters, they’re related). She is also the goddess of wisdom, water, stars, night and twilight, and law.

Vi and Qa’a: Goddesses of Chaos and Order. Depicted as twins, many times conjoined, and eldest of the pantheon. The original “queens” of the gods until their defeat and imprisonment by the others to keep their power in check. The more at odds they are with each other, the more tumultuous the outcome of their “outbursts.” Because they cannot be fully contained as the other gods hoped, the reverberations of their power can still be felt in the mortal realm, for better or for worse, depending on which twin “has the upper hand.” They do not have a sacred animal, but magic and monsters are said to be their creations.

[cassianus]

A Confession Which Leads The Inward Man To Humility

From “The Way of a Pilgrim”

Turning my eyes carefully upon myself and watching the course of my inward state, I have verified by experience that I do not love God, that I have no religious belief, and that I am filled with pride and sensuality. All this I actually find in myself as a result of detailed examination of my feelings and conduct, thus:

1. I do not love God. For if I loved God I should be continually thinking about Him with heartfelt joy. Every thought of God would give me gladness and delight. On the contrary, I much more often and much more eagerly think about earthly things, and thinking about God is labor and dryness. If I loved God, then talking with Him in prayer would be my nourishment and delight and would draw me to unbroken communion with Him. But, on the contrary, I not only find no delight in prayer, but even find it an effort. I struggle with reluctance, I am enfeebled by sloth, and am ready to occupy myself eagerly with any unimportant trifle, if only it shortens prayer and keeps me from it. My time slips away unnoticed in futile occupations, but when I am occupied with God, when I put myself into His presence every hour seems like a year. If one person loves another, he thinks of him throughout the day without ceasing, he pictures him to himself, he cares for him, and in all circumstances his beloved friend is never out of his thoughts. But I, throughout the day, scarcely set aside even a single hour in which to sink deep down into meditation upon God, to inflame my heart with love of Him, while I eagerly give up twenty-three hours as fervent offerings to the idols of my passions. I am forward in talk about frivolous matters and things which degrade the spirit; that gives me pleasure. But in the consideration of God I am dry, bored and lazy. Even if I am unwillingly drawn by others into spiritual conversation, I try to shift the subject quickly to one which pleases my desires. I am tirelessly curious about novelties, about civic affairs and political events; I eagerly seek the satisfaction of my love of knowledge in science and art, and in ways of getting things I want to possess. But the study of the Law of God, the knowledge of God and of religion, make little impression on me, and satisfy no hunger of my soul. I regard these things not only as a non-essential occupation for a Christian, but in a casual way as a sort of side-issue with which I should perhaps occupy my spare time, at odd moments. To put it shortly, if love for God is recognized by the keeping of His commandments (If ye love Me, keep My commandments, says our Lord Jesus Christ), and I not only do not keep them, but even make little attempt to do so, then in absolute truth the conclusion follows that I do not love God. That is what Basil the Great says: ‘The proof that a man does not love God and His Christ lies in the fact that he does not keep His commandments’.

2. I do not love my neighbor either. For not only am I unable to make up my mind to lay down my life for his sake (according to the Gospel), but I do not even sacrifice my happiness, well-being and peace for the good of my neighbor. If I did love him as myself, as the Gospel bids, his misfortunes would distress me also, his happiness would bring delight to me too. But, on the contrary, I listen to curious, unhappy stories about my neighbor and I am not distressed; I remain quite undisturbed or what is still worse, I find a sort of pleasure in them. Bad conduct on the part of my brother I do not cover up with love, but proclaim abroad with ensure. His well-being, honor and happiness do not delight me as my own, and, as if they were something quite alien to me, give me no feeling of gladness. What is more, they subtly arouse in me feelings of envy or contempt.

3. I have no religious belief. Neither in immortality nor in the Gospel. If I were firmly persuaded and believed without doubt that beyond the grave lies eternal life and recompense for the deeds of this life, I should be continually thinking of this. The very idea of immortality would terrify me and I should lead this life as a foreigner who gets ready to enter his native land. On the contrary, I do not even think about eternity, and I regard the end of this earthly life as the limit of my existence. The secret thought nestles within me: Who knows what happens at death? If I say I believe in immortality, then I am speaking about my mind only, and my heart is far removed from a firm conviction about it. That is openly witnessed to by my conduct and my constant care to satisfy the life of the senses. Were the Holy Gospel taken into my heart in faith, as the Word of God, I should be continually occupied with it, I should study it, find delight in it and with deep devotion fix my attention upon it. Wisdom, mercy, love, are hidden in it; it would lead me to happiness, I should find gladness in the study of the Law of God day and night. In it I should find nourishment like my daily bread and my heart would be drawn to the keeping of its laws. Nothing on earth would be strong enough to turn me away from it. On the contrary, if now and again I read or hear the Word of God, yet even so it is only from necessity or from a general love of knowledge, and approaching it without any very close attention, I find it dull and uninteresting. I usually come to the end of the reading without any profit, only too ready to change over to secular reading in which I take more pleasure and find new and interesting subjects.

4. I am full of pride and sensual self-love. All my actions confirm this. Seeing something good in myself, I want to bring it into view, or to pride myself upon it before other people or inwardly to admire myself for it. Although I display an outward humility, yet I ascribe it all to my own strength and regard myself as superior to others, or at least no worse than they. If I notice a fault in myself, I try to excuse it, I cover it up by saying, ‘I am made like that’ or ‘I am not to blame’. I get angry with those who do not treat me with respect and consider them unable to appreciate the value of people. I brag about my gifts: my failures in any undertaking I regard as a personal insult. I murmur, and I find pleasure in the unhappiness of my enemies. If I strive after anything good it is for the purpose of winning praise, or spiritual self-indulgence, or earthly consolation. In a word, I continually make an idol of myself and render it uninterrupted service, seeking in all things the pleasures of the senses, and nourishment for my sensual passions and lusts.

Going over all this I see myself as proud, adulterous, unbelieving, without love to God and hating my neighbor. What state could be more sinful? The condition of the spirits of darkness is better than mine. They, although they do not love God, hate men, and live upon pride, yet at least believe and tremble. But I? Can there be a doom more terrible than that which faces me, and what sentence of punishment will be more sever than that upon the careless and foolish life. that I recognize in myself?